The Meadow 23 der that humans had populated the Earth at all, and it made sense that babies were often referred to as “miracles.” Perhaps this was why people didn’t like to talk about baby-making. The project’s very hopelessness aroused anxiety. At the time, I was known as a violent sleeper, and whenever I slept in the same bed with my sisters, they’d wake up with my hand flopping over someone’s face or my toenails digging into someone’s leg, so I assumed the hypothetical pregnancy-seeking man and woman were like me, only worse. These poor parasomniacs would have to simultaneously endure grand mal seizures in order to conceive. I tuned back in to Mom’s lecture once more when she admonished, “You must be very careful not to get pregnant by accident!” This mysterious statement, and the stern tone in which it was couched, seemed to imply that one could engage in both purposeful and accidental activity while asleep. And, for some reason, I was already to blame for failing to discern the difference. Clearly, I thought, if a girl didn’t want to get pregnant, all she had to do was not sleep in the same bed with a boy, which, since I wasn’t even friends with any boys, seemed pretty easy to achieve. But if, for some reason, I had to sleep in a bed with a boy—and I tried to imagine what epic natural disaster or overcrowded Christmas gathering would engender such conditions—I ought to keep my underwear on. I resolved that, if such a situation should arise, I would wear underpants, a union suit, and flannel pajamas to boot. Still, I couldn’t get over the serious warning about the possibility of accidental pregnancy. It was as if she thought I might carelessly fall asleep somewhere outside the house or, perhaps, allow a stranger to fall asleep inside it. And yet, our house was no open-doored community center where neighborhood boys wandered inside at will to show off soapbox derby cars and
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