Towards the end of my big, fat, long, hot, sick, swollen pregnancy, I started to finally feel that I was ready to do that whole “giving-birth-and-entering-motherhood” thing.
I had read the books.
Did the prenatal classes.
Had my weight recorded loudly by the receptionist at my OB’s office approximately 800 times. (Tell me, please, WHY would you put the scale in the always-crowded waiting room? What a cruel bit of interior design clearly not planned by a pregnant woman.)
I had studied the blogs; watched The Business of Being Born.
I knew some things.
I knew not to buy too many newborn-sized clothes or diapers because my baby might be huge and not fit into them. (I didn’t need to worry; she was 8 pounds and wore them for a month.)
I knew I didn’t want a C-section. (That’s how it works, right? You decide how you want your birth to go and you write it on your birth plan?…totally ended up with a C-section.)
I knew I would be too tired to cook, so I made three freezer meals. (Oh good…all set.)
I knew I would want to drink lots of coffee, so I bought a better coffee maker. (This was probably the one smart thing I did.)
I knew there would be no sleep, lots of diaper changes, spit up, and some crying.
I knew it would be hard. I thought I was prepared. (You just keep eating dessert with every meal and telling yourself that, dear…)