“You’ve certainly been making up for that whole bedrest thing from last pregnancy,” my friend told me over the phone last night. And indeed I have.
I’ve spent the last 8 months or so raising a toddler, working a job, starting a business, running to doctor’s appointments, toting the crew to Grandma’s and Grandpa’s and Grammy’s and Uncle Jeff’s, seeing friends, carousing with the menfolk, writing a blog post or two, giving interviews, trying (but failing somewhat) to stay up to date on Lost, reading the news, washing the occasional dish in the sink, attending conferences, shuttling between New York and LA, and trying to secure future writing opportunities that evidently I will have endless free time to accomplish the coming months.
In other words: Total denial.
Because what have I not done? Named the baby. Researched double strollers. Looked at one “your baby at week X” page on Babycenter. Dug up the newborn clothes. Done one kegel exercise. Taken a prenatal vitamin in oh…like a million years.
It’s as if my swelling belly is the result of some sort of bizarre medical condition that requires me to avoid sushi and up my bra size every four minutes or so, and not a sign that there’s a critter in there with my DNA and one day soon, she’s going to want out.
And a place to sleep.
Maybe some love and affection.
The occasional breast milk.
But this week, my body forced me to start confronting the change ahead. Nothing like a rabid posse of Braxton-Hicks contractions taking over your uterus in an angry coup to smack your baby-denying self back to reality. For three straight days I’ve hardly been able to kneel down to extract a dust bunny-coated sippy cup out from under the couch, let alone attack my normally ambitious schedule.
So I’m guessing that means that…yep. A baby is definitely coming whether she has a name or not.
(Answer: Not. Definitely still not.)
And now I’m supposed to slow down.
Boy, am I not good at slowing down. Not good at all.