Monica Bielanko
That's What She Said
Just A Junk Drawer Dream
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Perfect Storm

A perfect storm is raging tonight in my stomach. A storm with ten fingers, ten toes... Ten fingers and toes beating thunder on my insides. Perhaps she wants out. I hope so. I want her out as well. I'd like to meet her already and get on with the business of learning parenthood.

I'm having contractions regularly. Braxton Hicks, not the real thing. It's quite uncomfortable. And tonight it feels like she's running her own little one-woman show in there. Like Dick Van Dyke's one-man band scene in Mary Poppins. In fact, now that I watch that clip, that's exactly what it feels like she's doing in there. Maybe she likes shit television, just like her Mama. It's nearly 3am. Serge, as usual, is dead to the world in our bedroom. I'm in her room watching Tyra get her fierce on. Tyra's a little nuts, no?

I am afraid. Not of labor, but of what comes after that. Of becoming a bona fide mother. I feel up to the task, but with just 14 days (or less!) to go, it all seems so intense just now. To go to the hospital a free spirit and return home with a human life completely in my hands. This little one who will look to me for everything. And then, my God, the teen years. The horror.

I try not to think too much about what it all means just now. My head might explode. Am just focusing on the obvious. Is her nursery ready, is the carseat installed properly, will my ass ever go back to its pre-pregnancy size?