In Retrospect...

Maybe buying a book with 60,000 baby names (that will eventually turn into grown-up names, lovers of the name "Baby") was probably not a good idea for someone with my particular level of neurosis.  I was able to cut out 50% of them this week, though, when the very personable ultrasound tech exclaimed,

"Oh, yeah.  Gender?  Well. Looks like a girl...see? Leg, leg, nothing."

Thanks man.  I understand that you see a lot of prenatal vaginas, but maybe you could at least pretend that this is something to be excited about?  Eric and I looked at each other awkwardly, afraid that any display of emotion might result in a blown circuit for the suspected Robot Doctor.  Not exactly the Kodak moment you imagine when assigning your child-to-be its genitals, but I'll take it.

So, along with trying to replace the pronoun "it" with "she," we've been actively avoiding the subject of names.  How do you name a person before you even meet them?  Actually, how do you name a person even after you meet them?  Typically the people I meet already have names, and I sort of like it that way.  It's just too much pressure.  I know there have been no conclusive studies on a person's name limiting their job prospects, but I also know I've never met a Pepper Jones, M.D. or Supreme Court Justice Rainwater Adams.  I want a strong name that lends to adorable nicknames when she's little and is not emotionally crippling as an adult.  A friend of mine pointed out, though, that "she's probably just going to change it to Beyonce anyway," and so, you know, they aren't that permanent after all.  I'm going to try not to worry about it until I have to sign a birth certificate.

Next, in this week's edition of Reasons I'm Not Ready to be a Mom:

Yeah, that's exactly what it looks like.  It's called a Snotsucker, and it has ruined all of the flowery motherhood feelings I was beginning to develop.  This thing has hundreds of 5-Star reviews on Amazon.  The picture alone makes every hair on my body stand up.  Am I a terrible person?  If I'm not willing to siphon boogers out of my helpless daughter's face, how will she ever know I love her?

I've got to get away from the internet.

One final thought, America.  For the entire half-hour I sat in the doctor's office waiting room this week, I was forced to listen to that bearded guy on CNN talk about Arnold Schwarzenegger's affair like it was 9/11: The Sequal.  I don't typically comment on celebrity gossip because a) I don't own a television, and thus don't usually know any, and b) I don't care about Lindsay Lohan's vagina. However, I was completely baffled by the coverage this story was getting.  You guys, he was a celebrity and a politician.  There was no way he was going to keep his pants on for any substantial amount of time.  How is this still news?  I'm shaking my head at you, Guys Who Determine What's Important Enough to Televise for Six Hours.

To my Darling Fetus,

Here's the thing, kid.
A romantic I am not.
I laughed in the face of the first boy who tried to kiss me. 
I refuse to hold hands in public.
The day I have to have "the talk" with you will probably also be the day I hire a live-in therapist.
Emotions are not my strongpoint, is what I'm trying to tell you.

I hear my friends talking about their children in such a flowery and lovely way that I just assumed it was another chemical side effect of pregnancy, like an aversion to poisonous smells or the desire to kill everyone in the car in front of you.  I thought that once I saw your little blurb on the ultrasound I would undergo some sort of magical transformation that made me both eloquent and maternal.

Apparently, that's not really how this whole thing happens.  Because as it stands, I'm 20 weeks and 6 days into this little (enormous) adventure, and I still feel like I'm at square one.  For me, square one involves a lot of panicking - about anything, really.  Anything I can grab onto.  Did you know that your due date is during the most active month of hurricane season, for instance?  Right.  Your mom is a crazy person.  And probably, if I had to guess, not the endearing kind of crazy that they base television sitcoms off of.  It's more like the kind of crazy that inspired sedatives.

And can we talk about the word "mom" for a second?  My mom is mom.  I am not a mom.  I still don't know how to buy a properly fitting bra for myself, for Christ's sake. I have no idea how to take care of myself. If I didn't have a boyfriend who liked to sit near me sometimes, I would probably not shower that often.  How am I going to mother you?  There are a lot of awesome moms in my family, and among my circle of friends. I don't think you understand the kind of pressure I'm under here.

The truth is, underneath all of my trademark panic attacks , I'm excited to meet you.  At the very least, I'm assuming that having you out here in the real world will squash my inexplicable craving for orange chicken (really, dude?).  And I guess, as wildly unprepared as I feel for this whole thing, I think it's going to be pretty awesome.  I think that you're going to be pretty awesome. 

When I really think about it, I was sort of made to be somebody's mama.  My diet already consists almost entirely of crackers and juice, and dance parties happen to be my favorite form of exercise.  Also, I've already read all the children's books we've been stocking up on.  Beverly Cleary is our favorite, I don't care if you're a boy.

I am so, so scared of screwing this up.  But I really think it's going to be okay.  We've got a pretty good family.  Even from 4,000 miles away, I think you'll be able to feel how much they love you.  I love you too, of course, and though I have a little trouble saying it out loud in the direction of my uterus, I imagine that once you're here I'll have trouble stopping.

So, here's to us, Fetus.  Let the wild rompus start.

PS -  For the love of God, open your little prude legs at the ultrasound next week.  Calling you Fetus is bordering on inappropriate at this stage in the game.

Today I made chili and also cried a lot.

Today was one of those days where I woke up and actually wanted to go to the beach, which is rare.

It was mega-cloudy, so what I did instead was sit in bed and cry because I miss my dog (and also my family).

Then I cried because I somehow ended up watching a YouTube clip of Jon Stewart's monologue on the Daily Show the day after 9/11 (How did that happen?  I cannot tell you.  The internet is a strange place.)

And then I cried because I started thinking about this Osama death, and what it must feel like for people who actually lost someone in the 9/11 attacks, and what it must feel like for the families of all the soldiers who have been sent and who are still stationed overseas.  Or those people who lost loved ones in this war against a concept.  And I hoped that it was at least mildly consoling, but I thought that it probably wasn't, for the most part, because "an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind," and I think that's sort of embedded in our DNA somewhere.  And then my mind wandered into conspiracy theories for just a moment, but I am incapable of thinking like that for extended periods of time, and mostly, I think they're nonsense. 

After I was finished with all my morning wallowing, the fetus declared that it needed a cheeseburger from McDonalds, and that's a new thing, because I have been vegetarian for about two years, and even before then I knew McDonalds' food was not originally intended for human consumption.  Alas, I hopped in the car and headed that way, crying all the way there because no one will hire me and why am I unemployable?! I got distracted, though, and settled on coming back home to eat leftovers and some dairy-free oreo-like cookies for lunch dessert, because that's a thing now.

I read a crappy book for a while, because I have plowed through all of my good books.  It is not my week, friends.

 Because the fetus did not get the cheeseburger it required for lunch, it demanded that I make chili for supper, and that was appropriate because it had been raining all day and the house was actually kind of drafty (I miss Arkansas mostly for it's unexpected chilly weather).  I minced an onion, and thought about all of the reasons that mincing things is stupid, and hard, and why can't I do it still even though my mother and Eric have shown me a million times?  I thought momentarily about putting it in the food processor, and then decided probably not.  Wished I owned a slap-chop, etc.

After I labored over a hot stove for approximately 18 minutes, it became clear to me that chili was the last thing I wanted to eat, and it actually sort of made me want to throw up. 

And here we are.

Why did I tell you any of this, blogpals? I have no idea.
If I had to wrap this up in a theme for you, I guess it would be that I am really tired of being pregnant.
I enjoy food and not crying far too much to do this much longer. 
Four more months.