I sat in a conference room in the Philosophy building of my university with four esteemed professors who were all there to hear me present an oral dissertation which would be the conclusion of my bachelor’s degree. They could finally check my name off their obligatory thesis advisory committee lists. I was one week shy of nine months pregnant, more than an hour away from home, and covered in that attractive panic-induced splotch pattern that one can only understand if s/he is the proud recipient of this magical genetic trait. To say that I was nervous would be a gross understatement.

After presenting my thesis and nervously answering numerous questions from the professors gathered, my committee took out their pens and inked their names on my fancy thesis paper copies (if you haven’t had the chance to follow rigorous instructions as to exactly how many cotton fibers must be inlaid in the expensive paper that you then spend tens of hours printing, compiling, and desperately attempting not to smudge, you’re missing out). It was over. I did it. I was done with my degree. I sat at the conference table, which could barely contain myself and my baby, feeling very much relieved. Not only was I finished with this defence process that I had been dreading since the day I decided to embark on this thesis mission, but also, my baby was kind enough not to make her appearance during my defense.

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