I got a magazine in the mail today called Babytalk. I'm on my couch, eating a green apple & caramel dip and reading through it. Cooing at the cute baby pictures, reading the little articles. I get to one about diaper rash and it hits me.
Hits me hard.
I'm going to have a baby.
A fragile, delicate, sole existence is relying on ME, BABY.
Cue the tears.
I'm going to have to know what to do. When his bum has a rash. When he cries, I have to attempt to decipher the tone and figure out "is this a hunger cry? a cry-just-to-cry-cry? a something-doesn't-feel-good cry?" It's all on me. Well and Nick. But ME. I'm the mom. I'm the one that has to kiss and heal the hurts and find the solution.
It's overwhelming. Having a baby. Forget the actual birth-and-bring-home part. The preparation for one is exhausting. The sheer amount of STUFF they need is mind boggling. MIND BOGGLING. I can't think of another thing I've done in my life where I'm going to need so much STUFF. I know that most of the stuff on our registries is non-essential fluff that's nice-to-have, but not a have-to-have. I also know that 90% of the stuff I think is a have-to-have will be stuff I end up not using. But holy crap, the number of items that really is REQUIRED to host a baby.....it's enormous. And you're given a registry gun and a 10 page list and sent on your merry way at the store.
Now, once he arrives I gotta figure out what the hell to DO with that stuff. What goes where and when? How often do you bathe a baby? When do you start good dental care? What temperature do I need to keep his room so he's comfy? How will I know what to do with him if he's hurting? He can't tell me what hurts....I just have to figure it out. What if I get the urge to drown him? How do I protect him from the Satan cat?
I'm not the first parent. People keep poppin' 'em out, so as overwhelming as it seems, there's obviously ways through it. My parents did a good job. I'm more normal and stable than a lot of people I know.
I hope I do half the job they did.
As long as I don't raise a future serial killer or drug addict or teen-run-away-prostitute, I think I'll be okay.
Ask me in 50 years.