One month. That’s it. That’s all that’s left on this
prison sentence glorious maternal journey of mine.
Yes, it’s only four weeks until my due date (meaning I’m destined to have this baby six weeks from now as payback for all the times I called him a demon wizard and dragon fetus). And I must confess, I’m getting downright giddy at the prospect of finally meeting the tiny human who has been using my bladder as his own personal trampoline. And not just because it means I finally get my body back.
Although admittedly that is a pretty big perk. I mean, just look me. Look how big I’ve gotten:
But walking around like I have 30-pound ham hidden underneath my shirt is a small price to pay for (and there really is no other way to describe it) this miracle. Seriously, my body is turning food into a person. It done don’t get more miraculous than that, folks. That is, unless the miracle involves wine. Booze miracles are always the best miracles. Mmmm…booze. Man, I miss drinking.
But I digress.
Now that I’m close to seeing the light at the end of the tunnel (or perhaps, more accurately, now that my baby is close to seeing the light at the end of the tunnel*) and all the major preparations (such as buying pacifiers that make it look like he has a mustache) are done, it leaves plenty of time to ponder the inevitable Big Questions.
No, not “will I be a good mother?” Pffft. Please. Technically we won’t even know if I am a good mom until he turns 18 and is set loose upon the world. So, the way I see it, no need to stress about that right now. That’s almost two decades I can put off that inner reflection nightmare.
No, the Big Questions I’m talking about are much more practical. Questions such as:
Have I ever changed a diaper before?
I must have. Right? You can’t get to your 30’s without changing at least ONE diaper. A friend or family member’s baby, perhaps. Or maybe during my Claudia from “The Babysitter’s Club” phase when I terrorized the neighborhood kids I watched with my fashion sense. Or at the very least my little brother, who is 17 years younger than me. I had to have changed his diaper. Right? Except I don’t ever remember changing any diapers. And I feel like wiping a butt that is not my own would stand out in my memory.
Oh my god, I have never changed a diaper in my life.
Can I swaddle a baby?
For those of you who don’t know, swaddling is the ancient art of wrapping up your baby, orgami-style, with a blanket. Considering it looks like you need a black belt level of ninja skills to achieve this supposed swaddle, my baby will look like a poorly gift-wrapped Christmas present (complete with duct tape).
Do I know how to use a breast pump?
Nope. But judging from the scary beer bong-looking device awaiting me in the nursery, it will be a highly unpleasant learning experience.
Will I be able to do seemingly simple “mom” things, like cut my baby’s tiny fingernails?
To answer this question, I’d like to present you with the following picture of my dog:
Well, the good news, as I mentioned before, is that I have almost two decades before I have to admit failure as a mom. In the meantime, I’m going to head to the store to stock up on duct tape so I can attempt to swaddle my kid once he’s out.
*Vagina jokes RULE!