Friday, May 20, 2011
My nursery has a white dresser. And a mobile in a box. Paint cans. Towels soaked with dog pee. And a box of pill bottles. Some days I think this means I have failed as a mother already. Other days I think baby stuff pretty much stinks. I have zero desire to even buy a swing or bouncy seat. Because it's so big. And annoying. And a waste of money. All he needs is a crib. Diapers. And love. Except a $450 jogging stroller. That's definitely a need. Last night I was crying. Because I'm worried my marriage will suffer. And that I will actually care that I can't jump on a plane to Cabo tomorrow. As if I have ever done that.Then the baby boy jammed his head against my sciatic nerve. As if to remind me he does not want to go to Cabo. He's getting bigger and moving low. Which freaks me out. Because as I told my midwife, I'm most scared of tearing. Without drugs. Tearing and my body should not be in the same sentence. Tearing is for paper. Then I think about how when I am laboring at home I want peanut butter. On a spoon. And maybe some cheese cubes. I'm reverting back to the first trimester. I'm nauseated. My stomach has lost the fight for space. I am exhausted. Not just a little tired. Bone-crushing exhaustion. My back aches. And my nipples are sore. It's the truth, deal with it. And whatever little ligament connects my hips to my pelvis. That hurts. Despite this, I love pregnancy. I will miss the kicks. And the looks of endearment from strangers. And people not letting me lift anything because, you know, the baby. Who is coming in less than three months. But he still has like five pounds to gain. I don't think he will fit. Or my stomach might bust open. I'm not ready. I don't have a daycare. Or a pediatrician. Nor did I realize I needed one before there is a baby. I have window sills with dust and cobwebs. A basement with no washer or dryer. A broken bedroom window. A nursery with only a dresser. And pee-soaked towels.