This office requires that I fill out forms in advance. My medical insurance is billed. I will be asked for a $40 co-pay when I arrive.

The first thing I notice on the day of my appointment is that the office has two front doors — not unlike some veterinarians — except that instead of dogs and cats, it's separate waiting rooms for well and sick children.

How thoughtful!

I enter the "well" side. A small, tidy room, with toys for the waiting children to play with. A friendly mom strikes up conversation, compliments me on my good luck with getting an appointment with this particular pediatrician. "She doesn't often accept new patients."

The second practice I visited, I was given an actual appointment with the doctor I'd requested, at no charge. My friend, who also sees the same psychic chiropractor that I do, raved about this woman. The practice has a very thorough website and I'd liked what I'd read on her bio page, that she was a successful artist with an MFA who decided to switch careers in midlife and fought age-ism to get into Medical School. She has now been happily practicing pediatric medicine for 20 years.

Who doesn't respond to a hero narrative like that? I couldn't help but get a little teary.

I came to the office late on a Friday afternoon. Prospective patient meet-and-greets are scheduled at the end of the doctor's workday.

The waiting area is a busy, massive, open room with cushioned vinyl chairs in primary colors. Two large multi-doctor medical practices share the area, so I am confused at first as to which window to check in at. The people waiting look frazzled, a little undone. I wonder if it's safe for me to be sitting there, what with my supposedly lowered immune system in pregnancy.

At my last prenatal checkup, my OB told me I needed to select a pediatrician. This is because you have to give the name of your chosen practitioner at the hospital, and said person will be coming to examine the baby soon after birth, and every day that you stay in the hospital, if you have to stay longer than one day.

So I did what I usually do. I asked friends for recommendations, looked at the local parenting bulletin board online, and called three. "Meet three, choose one" has been my mantra for selecting most helpers (wedding planner, doula, contractor, etc.). But that certainly hasn't been the case with everyone I work with or commit to; I certainly met more than three men before choosing my husband.

The first pediatric practice I contacted had me come to an after-work meet-and-greet. About 30 prospective parents crammed into the waiting room of a spotless, brand-new office, where we were served strawberries and apples and energy bars and bottled water (nothing with protein though, which I thought odd, given my recent adventures with and lessons learned from glucose tolerance testing — pregnant women need protein in our snacks, no?).

People sure do ask a lot of funny questions when they find out you're pregnant.

For example, more than one of my friends responded to the news with some variation of: "On purpose?"

I'm sure they meant well. People had a right to be surprised. We hadn't told anyone that we'd decided to start "trying." We figured it would take a while, that we'd have time to talk about it — that maybe, just at the start, it would be our little secret.

And then we hit the jackpot on the first try.

After the shock wore off, the next question generally was: Are you going to find out the sex?

Now, after our recent major ultrasound and amnio, we know: It's a boy.