I wish I could press pause. Time is going by way too fast. I'm slightly terrified of what's to come. I went to the hospital to pre-register this week and the lady entering my paperwork looked at me and said, "Does it freak you out that in less than two months you're going to be someone's mother?" A minute before we were talking about the gloomy, rainy weather and I added that I was happy with it since it was my day off and I was just going home to lay on the couch to watch Bravo. She had me pegged.

My days off go something like this: I wake up, spend an hour to an hour and a half actually waking up -- drinking coffee (not the whole cup, I pour out half, get off my back), eating a waffle with peanut butter, playing on the Internet -- then I go to the gym for about an hour or so, come home to play on the Internet some more while I eat my second breakfast, take a shower, spend about three to four hours getting dressed while watching TV, playing on the Internet, doing laundry, and then I eat lunch and finally go to the grocery store or run whatever one errand was on my to do list for that day. When I get home, I'm absolutely exhausted.

I've babysat babies and small children before so I know that day is going to look a bit different when Felicity arrives. I'm not so much terrified by that prospect. It is what it is, and I know I'll survive. I've already planned that I can watch my shows while breast feeding. I'm prepared. LOL.

I am, however, increasingly burdened about how I will possibly get this baby from my uterus to the outside world. I have my calm, collected moments where I'm like, "It will happen. Women have done it from the beginning of time. I can too." But as time approaches my moments are becoming more like, "Can't I just throw her up? That sounds much easier." I was bulimic for thirteen years and I managed to purge the impossible -- I was the best there ever was! -- so I'm fairly confident in my ability to purge a seven-or-so pound baby through my esophagus. I always thought bulimics would make the best competitive eaters. Replace all those beefy men with long-time bulimics and world records would be broken, I'm sure. Another side-note to that side-note, I've meant to write something about my eating disordered past for some time, but it's also like, I'm just amazed that I made it out alive so I don't even want to look back. Perhaps this weird paragraph about throwing up my baby is all I'll ever say about that bygone time in my life, but for what it's worth, recovery is possible. I used to think it was going to kill me or I was going to die a bulimic, like I was going to still be binging and purging as a little old lady, hobbling with my rocker to the toilet after I'd devoured everything in my kitchen. I'm still amazed that I made it out. And I've come full circle and found a purpose to all those years with my head in the toilet -- giving birth. If only it worked that way! This post has taken a morbid, twisted turn. My apologies.

THE POINT IS, I'm not as confident in the nether regions of my body. Logically, I know it's possible, but I still clench up when I think about it too much, especially when I hear about tearing and stitches. But, OK, I'm taking the attitude of, "This too shall pass." I know preparation sounds like a good plan, but I honestly don't care to hear about hypnotism or the Bradley method or Lamaze or whatever mind-trick worked/didn't work for so-and-so. I can't sit through a yoga class; I'm not going to listen to any child birth voodoo CDs. I am, however, going to a Lamaze class, because it's mandatory by a program I enrolled in through my insurance. I enrolled in the program to take all the How-To-Keep-Your-Child-Alive classes for free, as opposed to paying over $200. I know nothing. My youngest nephew is five, so it's been a long time since I've held a baby. A representative calls me once every two months to ask me the same questions, making sure I'm not shooting up or binge drinking, and in turn I take the classes for free. We'll see how helpful this birth prep class is. I'll try not to be so cynical, but don't act like I can be trained like a dog. YOU DON'T KNOW ME, SIT DOWN!

I've had several people say, "Oh! You're so active. I bet you'll have a fast labor." Sadly, there's no such trade-off. I acknowledge that I have had an incredibly easy pregnancy. My rings still fit. My biggest complaint is the size of my tits. What comes after DDD? I don't even want to know so I've given up and I'm wearing a bra you can purchase in a box from your local drug store. (Yes, the Genie Bra. It's ugly as shit but it sure is comfy. That would be my contribution to the infomercial.) I have a feeling that the real trade off is about to be made -- easy pregnancy meet death, or easy pregnancy meet demon child. Just kidding, Felicity will be an angel as all children are. ; D