They said it would happen, but I didn't believe them...

Today for the first time, reality set in. They, them, those people, said I would one day wake up, probably a couple of weeks before travel to pick up Misho, and truly realize just what we’ve done. I stayed home today due to some uterine issues (no need for details), and as I lie on the couch innocently enough watching The View (official public excuse: in too much pain to turn channel), it hit me like a dump truck full of play dough.

Holy hell. I’m going to be a mom.

This child will be with us for the rest of our days. We are irreversibly attached to and reconstructing our lives to accommodate another living breathing thing. And not a living breathing thing that can rest comfortably in most cases on the floor, pee on outdoor objects, and seem somewhat satisfied with a bowl of kibble. But rather a living breathing thing whose needs will be complex, mulit-layered, and perhaps even a little weird. I will be the primary caretaker of this human being. Or my “son”, as we’re now calling him.

Misho will stare at me and expect things. Holy shit. I’m going to have to know things. Mom things. Where to wipe and what to stick into his mouth. We have to hang out, A LOT, with no option to not. He might think I’m rather odd and smell funny, but whatever buddy, no changing cliques this time. I may be driving down the road, singing my favorite disco hit, and bam, realize that there is a baby in the back seat, and I’m not dropping him off somewhere.

Now, this is not the charming and heartwarming welcome letters that mothers put together for their children on their blogs. This is a declaration of panic. We’ve been trying to start a family for upward of six years now, and boom, we’re finally here. Almost. And will I let him read about my panic? Of course. Just to demonstrate how friggin seriously I took this mommy enterprise. How life altering. How ginormous. How seriously I took the job that I had a panic attack in my dark basement and almost ate an entire jar of peanut butter while the dogs looked helplessly on.

I’ve also noticed that my pants seem to have crept higher up my torso. Even my super hip-hugging pipe jeans seem to be on a journey toward my chin. How did the zipper and button crawl their way up past my belly button? Oh yeah, crap. I’m a mom.