While I am doing my best to self-quarantine and not leave the house unless it’s absolutely essential, I am almost in my third trimester of pregnancy, which means I am going to the doctor every two weeks and will be staying at a nearby hospital in just a few months. The estimated worst-case scenario is that between 160 million and 214 million people in the United States could be infected with the coronavirus during this pandemic — it could become hard to avoid even if I am discerning about when I venture outside.

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The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention doesn’t have many answers to questions about the dangers the virus poses to pregnant women and their babies. While the C.D.C. has said that so far infants of mothers with the coronavirus haven’t tested positive, and the virus has not appeared in samples of amniotic fluid or breast milk, there are just a small number of known cases to draw conclusions from. And we know of at least one newborn who tested positive (it’s not clear whether the baby contracted the virus in the womb or during labor). There have been pregnancy and delivery problems (such as preterm birth), but the C.D.C. says it is unclear whether those complications were a result of infection.

Amid this absence of information, I’m already thinking about my next trip to the grocery store — a place that now has a post-apocalyptic air about it — to purchase baby wipes and other staples before my daughter’s early-June arrival. I of course, didn’t plan for this, either. One month ago, my cursor was hovering over the “purchase” button on Amazon, ready to order a shipment of baby supplies when my mom told me, rightly, that I might be overpreparing — not only did I have time, but toiletries of that nature were one click away. Now that toilet paper and other basics are hot commodities, however, I have visions of racing other suburban moms down the diaper aisle to snatch products that I took for granted just a week ago.

I have recently spent more time unplanning than planning. The baby shower will be canceled, and I’ll spend the next few weeks fantasizing about the maternity massage that I was supposed to be getting in Maine on the babymoon that has now been removed from my calendar. These tiny pleasures were things that kept me sane at 3:30 a.m. when pregnancy insomnia set in or when my baby kicked particularly hard. With these ritual celebrations off the table, the rest of my pregnancy has taken on an air of an extended medical procedure: Go to the doctor; get an ultrasound to make sure she’s OK; try to make sure I stay healthy; repeat.