Today is the day that I stop bitching about how people don’t tell you how awful pregnancy can be.  Because today is the day that I have a nugget of information that when shared, could cause spontenous vomiting.  That is why people don’t tell you how awful pregnancy can be: they don’t know if you’re about to sit down to eat a lovely dinner when your cell phone dings and you check your text messages and are slapped in the face with a reality that you didn’t ever want to know about.  The pregnant person thinks they’re just relaying information- they have forgotten that their body’s metamorphosis is as horrifying as it is beautiful.   The horrifying things are not just disturbing but haunting; since each pregnancy is different just because you escape the first one with minimal shocking side effects doesn’t mean you’re free and clear.

And I’m not just talking about the stuff you think no one talks about.  I’m not talking about discharge, for instance.  I’m not talking about sausage feet or hemorrhoids. I’m not talking about flatulence or those mini-barfs or peeing your pants all the time.

I’m talking about serious shit you don’t want to know about.

Even the people who really really really love me don’t want to know.  Tom tolerates my endless chatter about the horrors with a smile, but I think he’s now blind and deaf with love for me and Baby Girl.  Normal people would run screaming or tear at the hair and scream “Why god?  Whyyyyyyyyy???”.  And if this post has peaked your curiosity and you want to know, think about that movie Candyman.  Remember how curious those people were about what would happen when they said “Candyman” into the mirror three times?  Well… knowing about the pregnancy horrors might not result in your death by a hook-handed man, but you will wish it did.

I have to make a couple of confessions.  First of all, I just realized that I didn’t know Thanksgiving was on the fourth Thursday of every November.  I actually thought it was November 28th.  So it’s a total surprise to me every year when Thanksgiving isn’t on the 28th.  Likewise, I don’t know the exact date of Christmas day.  Is it the 24th?  25th?  26th?  I know it’s right around there, but I wouldn’t put money on any one date.  I just don’t know for sure.

Making these minor confessions makes me feel more confident when I tell you that I am just not properly excited for this baby to arrive.  I don’t know what I feel, other than feeling like this part of my pregnancy could be  a plot line written for the Miranda character on Sex in the City.  Wait- there’s another confession- I don’t know if the name of the show is Sex And the City or Sex in the City despite going to the theater to watch both movies.  I have a few “hilarious” quips for when people ask me if I’m excited, and sometimes when the house is quiet and I’m in bed trying to sleep I rub my belly and smile happily.  But for the most part, I’m scared.  Like, I’m seriously f*cking scared.

Luckily, I know a secret.  It’s a very important secret that I cling to all the time, and I’m going to share it with you now:

The anticipation is always worse than the event you dread.

Worrying and fretting and obsessing don’t actually get you any closer to finishing anything.  But once you’re finally just in the reality you’ve been afraid of, and your adrenaline is going and you are surviving, you realize it’s not that bad.  Even when it’s really really bad, like having surgery while you’re awake, or trying on bathing suits.

In my case, I’m not even really sure what I’m so afraid of.  I mean, having the baby be stillborn is still enough of a risk with my gestation diabetes that I can worry about that when I don’t feel her little punches and hiccups.  That takes up a lot of my energy.  I know I’m afraid of being patient with the baby, and with Tom, and with myself.  I’m afraid of saying goodbye to my old life, especially since over the past year and a half I felt so far away from almost everything I cared about.

Writing it out like this makes me feel better that I don’t have the right thing to say to people asking me if I’m excited.  I am excited, I’m just so busy anticipating that I lose sight of why I took this leap of faith in the first place.  The reason, of course, was to make a miniature Tom who can’t escape my hugs and kisses with his excuses of having to “work” or “go to sleep” or “take a shower”.  Er, I mean…did that sound a little too honest?  I mean to say the normal reason that normal people have children.  Please insert that reason here_____________.

I don’t exactly know how to live in the moment, but I know how to distinguish the anguish of anticipation from an upcoming reality.  I’ve got two weeks to go.  Two weeks that I can spend in excited anticipation as long as I remember that once I’m in combat, I’ll be able to figure out what I’m supposed to do.

And while we’re talking about secrets, I should probably tell you one more.  When you ask some one how they’re feeling, and they tell you that they’re worrying or scared, they don’t want you to cheer them up or give them a pep talk.  They don’t need you to point out that they’re being irrational or where the silver lining is.  They don’t want you to scoff at their fears or try and solve their problems.

They want you to say this: “Ugh that is scary” or “That’s sucks!” or “I hate that for you”.  No one will tell you that, but it’s the truth.

Just three weeks to go, then it’s baby time. I’ve started frantically flipping through my baby books- too frantic to really absorb anything but it makes me feel like I’m doing something to prepare. The painter comes Monday to turn a guest bedroom into a pink frilly nursery. I made an appointment with a pediatrician and started filling out a daycare application. I’m not exactly nesting, but my severe laziness and procrastination tendencies seem to be getting out of the way. For once.

In non-baby news, I’ve been suffering some pretty bad readers’ block lately, which breeds writers’ block. If I’m not reading something inspiring, I just can’t seem to do anything other than write a few sentences about my feelings, get exasperated, delete the whole thing, then play solitaire on my iPhone. I didn’t know what was going on in the news because I only read the comments in the stories…I couldn’t get much past about one hundred words before I started wondering what was happening on Facebook. And everyone knows there really isn’t much happening on Facebook.

I started to get desperate- I would try and read any book anyone recommended to me (that’s not entirely true, I remain a Harry Potter/Twilight snob) but nothing stuck. Finally two nights ago I found something that I didn’t want to put down after two paragraphs. Now I’m back in the brain swing of things, but as you can see I’ve gotten pretty rusty over the last month or so. I mean I’m boring myself as I type this. I’m worrying, right now, that I won’t be able to proof read this post because it’ll bore me so much I’ll lose the confidence to ever blog again. But this is the only way I can knock the rust off, and I want to write as much as usable when Baby Girl actually arrives. That means for my audience either A: This blog will become consistently so boring that you’ll have to abandon it or B: It’ll turn out that I’m one of those rare people who can write a blog about their kids in a funny and interesting way (here’s a great example).

I’m impressed that I was able to turn my non-baby update into a baby update.

Except for people who hate pregnant ladies. Walking down the street these days I usually get one of three reactions: I get big smiles (aw, a pregnant lady), or narrowed eyes (“way to continue the earth’s overpopulation”) or nervous darting glances (“am I going to have to boil water and tear up sheets for this broad?”). It’s like I’m a walking science experiment wrapped in a political statement covered in anti-feminist goo. It’s rare to have some one just talk to you like you’re a regular human which I guess is fitting since I haven’t felt like a regular human since about July.

There might be some jealousy involved when it comes to pregnant-lady-haters. My hair, as I’ve mentioned, is magnificent. Also, I don’t have to plan outfits since I only have three articles of clothing that still adequately cover my body. So…whatever is clean is matching in my book. While I’m still expected to go places (despite my loud protests) no one expects me to participate. At restaurants I’m permitted to even close my eyes after dinner until it’s time to leave. I can’t do that while driving though, even in heavy traffic. It’s a slippery slope you know, and a habit I might not be able to drop post-pregnancy. These are small concessions compared to the huge sacrifices a pregnant lady makes, but jealousy has no eyes for the other side.

In fact I am one of those people who doesn’t really believe that anyone has ever done this before. I know… I see other pregnant ladies, and of course I was the result of my own mother’s pregnancy, but a few “facts” about the proliferation of human life are unconvincing when I’m trying to plant my butt on the toilet without free-falling those last four inches. Incidentally- Tom really did offer to get me one of those toilet seat extenders that the elderly use, which really shows what a sweet man he is. I, of course, screamed HELL NO, which really shows what a pain in the ass I am. But I can’t relinquish all of my pride…I might need it again someday. Tom just read this over my shoulder and says that he stands by the toilet seat extender.

That’s all for now. I’ll try and write more now that Baby’s arrive date is coming at us like a freight train. I know my days of languishing in front of the computer are coming to an end!

I feel like one of the McCrary twins these days. It’s not just the constant shots of insulin or the constant doctors appointments that all start with a weigh in…it’s that I can’t remember what I looked like pre-belly/cankles/double butt. (A double butt is when you have another butt made out of back fat on top of your usual butt.) It’s impossible for me to imagine being able to exercise or tie my own shoes or shave my legs.

The leg shaving situation is so out of control, if you’re wondering, that I have regular nightmares where I’m sleeping and Tom sneaks a peak at my legs and passes out and hits his head and I can’t do CPR because I’m too fat to get out of bed and I am stuck just rolling back and forth like a dung beetle stuck on it’s back.

I really thought I’d be a more darling pregnant lady. I didn’t think it’d be all farts, burps, and f-words.

As of tomorrow, we’ll have 36 more days until Baby Girl arrives. I do sometimes worry about her health, and I frequently worry about Tom and my careers, and I worry non-stop about where we’ll live and when we’ll let her get a cell phone and what we’ll tell her about her brother and if I’ll be able to give her a sibling and if I’ll be a good mom and what my life will look like once she arrives. But it’s a relief not to worry any more about her coming too soon. And it’s a huge relief to know that we really did survive and that we really are going to be ok.