I was certain the bureaucratic paper chase and cultural crash course instigated by marrying my Chinese girlfriend 18 months ago would make the next step - having a baby abroad - a piece of cake. After all, if you can drop your trousers in front of strangers, submit to a series of random and rather invasive health checks and fork out about 900 yuan for the privilege, how difficult can it be to sit back and watch someone else do all the hard work?
The candour with which complete strangers would approach us on the streets of Beijing and offer advice - take this special soup; don't go out in that sort of weather; be sure to choose a good school now - ranged from charming to downright unwelcome.
I certainly wearied of the 'boy or girl?'' queries and the unspoken wish that it would be the former. In fact, I always wanted a girl (maybe something to do with growing up with three sisters or the grudging suspicion that women really are the smarter, stronger sex).
Just when we were getting the hang of this pregnancy malarkey - Angela was certainly lapping up the extra attention - Sars reared its ugly head. Suddenly, the mere sneeze of a taxi driver could send shudders down the spine.
With the entire city seemingly holed up behind masks and locked doors, it was impossible to follow textbook advice about relaxing and enjoying the pregnancy. Having our nearby ante-natal commandeered for Sars patients was little short of a nightmare.
A simple check-up became a logistical nightmare. Angela would return home close to tears having queued for hours at another hospital that was doing the best it could. We'd ruled out the international hospital option because we couldn't justify the US$10,000-plus asking price.
We didn't flee during Sars. We survived it and shared the relief of others as the risk gradually receded.