Buns and Speed Guns

There’s a mailbox adorned in reflective tape on my way home. It sits just off a main road, in the middle of a long straight-away stretch. Every time I drive home at night, my headlights catch it; and every time, I’m certain it’s a speed trap. EVERY TIME. But I still speed on.

Times are crazy now. The bun is rising in the oven, and we’ve mostly (even today’s tests are risk based and have a pretty sorry confidence interval, for you stats nerds) ruled out the worst of the genetic and congenital ailments. So far pregnancy seems to be a harrowing trip through a hypochondriac’s reverie, with so many tests to rule out so many terrible things. Let’s hear it for 10 fingers/10 toes. Hell, I’d even take 11. I’m just glad she’s healthy. And her mother too.