I'm a round snowman-like entity. My abdomen has expanded to the point I look undeniably pregnant and I have roughly four months to go. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't rather horrified about the prospect of my body's humungous future. I've googled "40 weeks pregnant" and it ain't cute. Them bodies mean bidness.
I'm trying to wrap my head around caring for an infant, even when I'm tired, or sick or not in the mood. I'm visualizing leaving the house to go to various types of places with a baby and how to manage all its needs and still maintain a life. I want to breastfeed, and I'm nervous about doing it out in public, which I'll have to do if I leave the house for more than a couple hours at a time. I'm thinking about my friends and how dinners out will be over for quite some time.
I'm wondering how the cats will react. I'm concerned about getting a colicky baby who drive me crazy. I'm worried about taking a stroller on a streetcar (Oh, how I wish those new streetcars were out now) and whether I'll be a pain in the ass who blocks people or if I'll be able to lift it myself up the old school streetcar steps.
Leaving for the weekend? Not without the baby. How will I make a hair appointment? I can't take a baby into a salon and the Dude works late hours on a random basis so he can't be counted on to be home to take over. I read so many women who wax poetic about how vital their mothers are when they have a baby. Awesome. Well, that's a luxury I don't have.
I know we will make this work. It'll work because it has to. There's no other options. But damn. Adjustments. I'm in for such a ride.