Posted by: emjb | July 15, 2005

Crabby, Unsentimental Me

I am always a little bit crabby, to be honest. I don’t like dithering, or people who can’t make up their minds, and thus put me behind schedule. I don’t like people who are in charge of something but can’t be bothered to fix obvious problems in their organization. Those sorts of things get to me more than out and out rudeness, sometimes, because I figure people who are downright rude/violent/mean are in fact, mentally-ill cretins. People who aren’t cretins but who can’t just get on with whatever it is they need to get on with bug me much more.

But that’s because we’re always most outraged by the sins closest to us. I am a champion procrastinator, myself. I am very good at not, in fact, getting on with whatever I need to get on with until a deadline looms over my head. And only dread of future collapses and embarrassments keeps me from letting problems get too out of hand.

I have no idea where I was going with that. But anyway.

I’m at 25 weeks, officially, as of yesterday. Plans, procrastination tendencies or not, must be made as this deadline looms large and life-changing. Big plans, involving jobs and money and moving and more money. And little plans, for things like laying in enough diapers, bottles, and perhaps some nipple shields (I threw that one in to make the fellas cringe, heh).

It’s time for us to be doing all this family/life/etc. stuff, I’m not really upset about it, but it is more than a little intimidating. They’re actually going to let us leave the hospital with this little person, and then Matt and I are responsible for it, and that’s pretty much it. Nobody is going to check our work with the kid; we’re free to mess him up or not as we choose, for the most part.

I think I’m a bit like a soldier on the eve of battle at this point; the whole thing seems more than a little unreal and ridiculous. I think I’m supposed to be in hormonal mommy-heaven, dreaming baby dreams or something and cooing over any babies in my vicinity. Perhaps writing bad poetry and making abstract sculptures about our deep spiritual connection.

This has not happened. I don’t dream about cute little babies, or blissfully cuddling newborns. At least not that I can remember. I mostly make lists in my head of things to do, things done, and things that I can write off as unnecessary. Sometimes I think I’m the least sentimental mom-to-be you ever met.

I still don’t really feel any connection with the baby as a person. I know he’s there, I can feel him move around, but the idea that this experience will result in a new permanent member to Matt’s and my family doesn’t seem to be sinking in. I’ve decided not to worry about this, since I don’t think it’s up to my conscious mind, and I’ll have the rest of my life for it to feel real anyway. I worry occasionally that we won’t like each other, but have it on good authority that this usually isn’t a problem until they hit 13 or so. Apparently the process of squeezing someone out of your uterus makes you inclined to like them, and they, not really having anyone to compare you with and needing you to survive, generally like you too.

Or so I’m told. Right now, I think my brain is not convinced this will happen. But this is the same brain that was all “Yay! Babies!” last year, so I think it is just having stage fright and can safely be ignored. It’ll come around.

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