It was 6:25 a.m. on a Saturday. It was, in other words, many hours before I intended to leave my cozy nest of a bed. In fact, I’d been determinedly ignoring my hungry, howling cats for an hour, but when the dog stuck his cold nose in my face and sneezed, I gave up. I stumbled out of bed and stomped down the stairs, snarling “I really hate you guys right now. Hate, HATE, HATE you, you hear me?”
And that’s when it struck me.
Oh my God, I’m going to be a mommy.
What kind of mommy tells her children she hates them?
Holy crap, I’m going to be a Bad Mommy.
In theory, I’d already known I was pregnant for several weeks. But since no one knew but my husband, pregnancy seemed more like a never-ending case of the flu than the beginning of a life-changing event.
But as I sobbed my heart out at the kitchen table, reality set in. Soon, I’d be wholly responsible for another little person—and my every action would have an impact on their life. Every cross word, black-hearted glare and snide remark could be the one that sends them to therapy in their adult years.
I resolved to be a nicer person after that. A better person. One who could conceivably be viewed as capable of raising a child—hopefully one without too big of a risk of becoming a serial killer.
It’s several weeks later now, and things are still a little touch and go. I haven’t cussed at my pets lately. But I have snarled at my husband more than once or twice. I’m starting to feel excited now, even overjoyed. And although I haven’t met my baby yet, I already love her (or him) with a ferocity that surprises me.
But those moments of panic? They still sneak up on me. I’ll be minding my own business, flipping channels on the TV, when with a suddenness that stops my heart, I remember—I’m going to be a mommy. Who the heck thought that was a good idea?