The rain pelted relentless. All was dark. As the taxi driver exited the highway, snaking the narrow rutted streets leading to Ciudad Colón, I closed my eyes, exhausted. The day had been interminably long. For starters, I'd arrived at the airport late and come within minutes of missing my flight. The six hour delay in Miami was enough to make me swear off flying forever. Then there was the flight itself: A tropical storm off the coast of Nicaragua cut the cabin lights, throwing the plane into such a dive that my seat mate -- a woman with whom I hadn't shared a single word since boarding -- suddenly snatched my hands, attempting to pray us both into heavenly divine. If ever I'd wondered why I thought it a good idea for someone seven months pregnant to travel alone to a foreign country, now was certainly the time.

But then again, I'm the sort known to suffer benign neglect when it comes to making decisions -- especially the major ones. For instance, I hadn't planned on getting pregnant. Even if I was sure I wanted to one day be a mother (I wasn't), the timing couldn't have been worse. After squandering my twenties on a bad marriage and succession of dead-end jobs, I'd met a sweet man and landed a full time gig teaching community college. There was also that one-bedroom condo in the city Chris and I were hoping to buy, as well as a ton of other reasons why having a baby was most definitely a Bad Idea. The more pressing of these, however, was the book I was working on. An ethereal swirl of character and conversation first imagined six years ago, I'd been striving to finish it in the little free time I possessed when not grading papers, planning the next class or commuting forty miles a day. Motherhood? Are you kidding? I was far too busy pursuing my dreams to even think about bringing a new life into this world, much less dedicating the time and attention that life would require to blossom into a healthy, happy and whole person.

So what happened?

I got pregnant, of course.

The first to go was the condo we never had.

Thankfully, we'd lost all potential bids to the ever-growing caste of millionaires calling Washington, DC home and retreated back into our 500-square foot apartment more happy than we had a right to be, given that we were expecting to add a third family member to our shoebox in just a few short months.

Finishing out the semester was easy enough. Barring the one after-hours meeting in which I single-handedly devoured an entire pizza ("Anyone like a slice? Anyone?"), no one but my boss and a good friend knew I was pregnant. The last final turned in, I finally broke down and confessed my secret -- by then I was five months along. My students' shock delighted me (not that fat, yet!), and when one of them blurted, So that's why you were always eating yogurt in class! We thought you had acid reflux! I smiled bemusedly, surprised to discover how fond of them I'd become. Was it possible to skip that blissed-out maternal instinct and go straight to feeling like someone's grandmother? Because so far, that blooming belly pushing at my waistline was nothing more than cause for a new wardrobe surprisingly hipper than my old, a sudden taste for all things peanut butter and my absolute favorite -- Friday Night Steak(s). Motherly, I was not. When a friend asked if I wanted to hold her seven-month old, I was as reluctant to do so as I'd been when he was just born. And my four-year old nephew, I'm told, can't pick me out of a lineup. Now that's just sad.

Just what kind of mother would I make?

These days, it's hard not to get angry when books like The Mommy Wars come out. Stay-at-home vs. Working Mother vs. the World. Maybe I'm naïve, but aren't we all in this together? I wish women would stop this vicious in-fighting and realize that until society supports both decisions, competing factions among the oppressed set does nothing more than help tow the capitalist patriarchal party line. Affordable daycare and reasonable maternity leave surely won't come as long as we're bickering with each other instead of those cursed powers-that-be.

I mention this now because for me, the prospect of having a child at a time in my life when I hadn't yet accomplished my most major of major goals (the novel), had plunged me into despair. Maybe for some this isn't a problem, but for the self-absorbed type like myself, it was hard to imagine dividing my time and attention between my passion, the paycheck that put the booze on the table that enabled me to pursue that passion, my lover and my child. And when you're broke in a town as expensive as Washington, staying at home simply isn't an option. Something I loved had to go, but I wasn't ready for sacrifice just yet. School was out, and that meant I had the summer to write, write, write. And that, I decided, was what I would do. With maniacal zeal, I whipped through the application process for a residency at the David and Julia White Artist Colony, located twenty miles outside of San José, Costa Rica. Although most resident-hopefuls apply a year in advance, it just so happened they not only had an opening, but were willing to take me on. I was ecstatic! Didn't this prove something? Maybe it was possible to have everything I wanted, after all.

I mean really. How hard could it be?

Flying high on pregnant machisma, I hefted my bags to the curb and hailed a cab, feeling better about the month to come than I had en route to Costa Rica. The driver my captive audience, I happily practiced my Spanish as we drove along, delighted to discover I was at least in some part understood and possibly even charming. Pretty soon we'd left city lights behind, coasting up and down the meandering mountain roads that would take us to Ciudad Colón.

But then trouble started a second time. The taxi driver couldn't find the colony; I couldn't locate their phone number. And then there was the problem of converting American greenbacks into colones -- a task far too mentally exerting for someone like myself, suffering as I was from both a math deficiency and pregnancy brain. When we finally did locate the orange gates set to usher us inside the colony, I was too tired, too hungry and too full of self-pity to care. But it was an hour later as I slipped into bed that I finally allowed myself to fall into tried-and-true despair. Why have I come here? I thought. I'm hormonal! I'm hungry all the time! I forgot my Omega-threes!

Maybe my sister was right: It was selfish of me to have traveled to another country so far along in my pregnancy. After all, my life wasn't just about me anymore, a concept I was having a hard time accepting. Maybe it was time to shelve my dreams. Sinking lower and lower, I couldn't help but feel as though I'd proven true the maxim I'd for so long believed but had been trying like hell to defy: Wedding babies to professional goals will only land you a marriage in which one partner -- I'm not saying which one -- is soon stashing empty vodka bottles under the couch every night in between back-to-back repeats of "Roseanne."

Better to not marry in the first place.

There are no shortages of clichés about how life is what happens when you're busy making other plans. Before I became a mother, I thrived on goals: Short-term, long-term. Goals to get me through my morning commute. I still have my professional goals. There is, after all, that job I love and the novel to finish. But unlike before, I now realize that the moments we often find most fulfilling are the ones that sneak up on us, challenge our neatly-constructed ideas of ourselves and what it is we think we want out of life.

That first morning I awoke in Costa Rica, all my worries about managing life as a mother, teacher and writer dropped in an instant. Sunshine splashed the room warm and shiny. Birds called to me in foreign tongue and the view from my window -- missed the previous night, when all was dark and soggy -- rose magically into sight: Verdant mountains sponging heat in the near distance while just outside my window coffee plants, butterflies and banana trees lurched sleepily in the sun. I stretched my hands behind my head, smiling. Despite my best efforts, I'd landed right where I was supposed to be.

I have no idea what kind of mother I'll make. But I do know this: There is not one single event in my life that has brought me as much joy as the moment my daughter was born. Her birth didn't go exactly according to plan. She was late, the car broke down en route to the midwife. I had a pinched back nerve and ended up at the hospital after 24 hours of excruciating labor. But most surprising of all was how vigorously Lucy charged into this world. Gone was the idea of the fragile infant! My girl had strength, substance. Seconds old, she quietly took in her new surroundings, alert and full of wonder. And when her eyes met mine, it was then that I knew the truth of all my travels, both those far away and those close to home: Life makes happy accidents of us all.

Aren't we the lucky ones!

Janet Freeman writes, photographs and otherwise relishes the new wild life that is hers since becoming a mother. She lives in Portland, OR with her partner Chris and their daughter Lucy. Her work can be found at: http://www.janetinportland.com.