33 Weeks, 4 Days
I am so not a diary person. I tried to keep a diary when I was in high school because it was the cool thing to do at the time and I had probably been watching too many episodes of Dawson’s Creek – yes dear diary, I watched Dawson’s Creek with the unashamed vigour of a thirteen-year-old. Sadly, unlike Joey Potter, I had nothing to say and the whole exercise bored me very quickly. But now, fourteen years later, I’m back. Here’s why: I have this insane idea that the next time I am seven weeks away from pushing a baby out of my vag I will look back on my ‘Dear Diary’ entries for some words of wisdom. Okay … I am now laughing at myself. Wisdom? NEXT TIME? Yup. It’s true. I am certifiable. To my future self: there will be no words of wisdom but I do promise to keep it real – that is something I am good at. So I guess the question is: do I feel ready to me mom? And the answer is a boldly, italicised, exclamation-marked No! I know that I love my baby girl but I do not know how to look after her. I have been told that the mothering instinct will kick in when she is born. Thanks, now I feel better. Not. In fact, what I am going to do with her after birth takes up far less thinking time than how the shit I am going to get through the grim reality of actually giving birth. Pleasantville is rapidly becoming an indistinct memory as my due date imposes itself on my consciousness. What if I go into labour at work? What if something happens to my baby? How will I get to the hospital? The pain, the pain, the pain! Will they numb me before giving me an episiotomy? How long will I be in labour for? What if my baby is retarded? What if I bleed to death? How sore is an epidural? Blah blah blah HELP!
