My friends, I am a mere 13 weeks away from becoming some
poor kid’s Mother. This is a
terrifying thought. In just three
months I will be expected to not only push a large human being out through a
very small hole, but I’ll also have to care for this child right away without
any sort of nap or shower or even a revitalizing cocktail. Which begs the question: what the hell
have I gotten myself into?
One would surmise that in my advanced age (I’m 102 in
Hollywood years) I would be ready to assume the responsibility of
parenthood. The trouble is that I
have spent my life avoiding taking responsibility for anything other than
deciding where my friends and I should meet for Happy Hour. Hey, I even chose a career that allows
me the freedom to sleep until noon and to drink while I work. Does that sound like a woman uniquely
suited for Motherhood? And yet,
here I am, buying things called Soothies and Boo Boo Bears and making appointments
with Pediatricians who expect me to ask educated questions about the health of
my future child. And in just a few
weeks a tiny, helpless bundle of screaming humanity will be looking up at me
expecting me to instinctively know how to feed it or diaper it or put it to
sleep. Dear Reader, I am
S-C-R-E-W-E-D.
I know that women have been giving birth and caring for
babies since the beginning of time, but now that my Baby’s birth day is
actually within shouting distance, I’m starting to get concerned that I may not
possess the distinct gene that tells women what to do when presented with a
small, screaming, red-faced infant.
Oh, sure, I’m a smart woman and I’ll figure it out (read: hand baby to
my Mother and run screaming from the house), but I am absolutely terrified that
this is not going to end well for me or my offspring. The ideas that run through my over-taxed pregnant brain are
insane. I can’t help but think
about all the terrible outcomes that my bad parenting could cause. Perhaps my child will become a
hard-partying screw-up because I don’t plan to co-sleep. Or worse, maybe my kid will be a total
math nerd with no friends who gets beat up at lunchtime. No matter which way it goes, I can
definitely be guaranteed one thing: my kid will most likely need a very long
and expensive course of therapy.
If you think I’m a neurotic mess now, just imagine what I’m
going to be like when I’ve only slept two hours, my boobs are leaking milk, and
I haven’t showered for six days.
Honestly, I’m not sure one really can be prepared for the complete and
utter life change that occurs when one becomes a parent. Sure, I’ve registered for all the stuff
that Amazon.com tells me are “must-haves”, I’ve signed up for a diaper delivery
service and I’m planning on buying out the entire Trader Joe’s freezer section
to make sure there’s food for us to eat, but that’s kind of as far as you can
go until the kid decides to make his entrance downstage vagina. Until then I’ll continue to pace the
hallway each night imagining all the ways I’m sure to be an unfit Mother. Here’s hoping it’s okay to take
Klonopin while breastfeeding.
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