This morning, in that hazy place between wake and sleep, I had this horrible dream. I dreamed that I was almost nine months pregnant, had put on almost forty pounds in thirty five weeks, and had just started to realize that I had not a clue what to do with a baby - a baby I was almost certain the hospital was going to send home with me. Then I attempted to roll over, received a ninja chop to my liver, and sat up straight in bed (or sat up as straight as possible which is actually more of a reverse limbo move wherein a lot of straining and groaning takes place) and realized that Holy Crap that's not a dream - that's my life, and my thighs rubbing together.
This thought was quickly followed by a wave of widespread panic. (Which now makes me smile in a very ironic way seeing as just a few short ten years ago I followed a band by that name through various cities and ate grilled cheese sandwiches while rocking out in my hippie clothes. Now, I am using the term to describe the size of my butt and the extent of my realization that I am about to the at least partially responsible for another human being's continued existence.) But, back to the wave of panic which was even more quickly thwarted by the now constant need to pee so I rolled out of bed - literally, I roll out of bed now, like start with a rock to the left, then a rock to the right, then back to the left, then hurl myself off the side of the bed with as much momentum as possible and hope to land on my feet - and waddled into the bathroom hoping my aching back would get me to the pot before I peed on myself.
And because I was already in an obviously reflective mood, my mind drifted back to a fateful night some eight months ago (October 24 to be exact) when another seemingly innocent trip to the bathroom sent me into a tearful panic that my sweet, sweet husband did not seem to understand. I remember looking at him as he smiled with all the pride of a new daddy and I half choked/half sobbed/half screamed (I know that this is too many halves, but work with me) at him that this was NOT okay under any means and I was freaking out because I was going to have to push a baby out of my hoo-hah and I did not so much want to do that.
Ooooh, naive child of so little faith, I told my eight months ago self this morning. Delivery. HA. Like that's what you should have been worried about so many nights ago. How about this for an updated list of things you should have been wigging out about: bottles, breastfeeding, breastfeeding every 2-3 hours, circumcision care, umbilical care, colic, acid reflux in baby, acid reflux in you, never sleeping again, sitz baths, birth weight, my weight, the fear of peeing on yourself, the fact that you will not be able to breathe, walk, sleep, sit, stand or even eat properly in just a few short months, the fear that this child may never, ever actually get here, and did I mention breastfeeding every 2-3 hours leading to never sleeping again and possibly losing your mind?
Whew. And I was worried about what it would be like to have a baby in the sense of delivering one. Now I am kind of majorly concerned about what it will be like to have a baby in the sense of have as in ownership, like he is all yours, yes ma'am you do have to take him home from the hospital, and by the way, when exactly are you planning on installing that car seat, putting together that crib, or buying that rectal thermometer you keep hearing about. BUT at the same time, there is coinciding fear, however irrational, that what if he never comes out of me??? What if he just keeps getting bigger and I keep bigger, and the weeks keep going by slower and he just never actually gets here and ......
I am actually losing my mind. As I type this, I can feel the hysteria creeping out of my fingertips and onto the computer screen. But, I am going to take solace in the fact, although I do not know this for sure, that these feelings are normal - however crazy they may seem when you see them in black in white. I am going to go back to my happy place of being in denial that this is all about to go down in a very real kind of way, and instead heave my now very large rear end out of this very hard chair and waddle to a very greasy lunch counter and eat something fried followed by something covered in icing for lunch. And when the next person asks me, oooh, you look like you are about to bust, how much longer? I am just going to give them a blank stare, shake my head slowly, and say, I haven't the foggiest idea what you are talking about, how much longer until what?
