I have developed a charming habit this week. Daily public chats with my unborn fetus. Yes, today on the way home from coffee with Bestie I realised I openly talk to my nasty baby as if it were already sitting in a car seat in the back of my car, Max. Sadly, Max is another luxury just like coffee time with Bestie that will most likely meet an untimely death when nasty baby make his or her first appearance. It is a trade off I’m coming to terms with; pooping, screaming, sleep-taking “angel” for … fun. All fun. Bye-bye fun. Although, every day I remind myself there is a silver lining. Even bigger jugs. Pretty much everyone appreciates boobs, so I’m thinking if I have real nice big ones I’ll be shoe-in for better jobs, better tables at restaurants, and line-jumping for every occasion. Plus, Hubby has never expressed to me that bigger protruding malonies are a negative side effect to pregnancy and early motherhood in his opinion. I’m assuming he and baby will discuss an acceptable time limit for breastfeeding, for hubby’s peace of mind.

Now, did my pregnancy brain and I totally get off track? Indeed. My point was this, baby and I having conversations in the car where for people driving by and looking in make me look like a mentally unstable pot-belly pig. I love my pregnancy image. But alas, it really is sweeter than that. Momma-pot-belly pig holds her boulder-bump and talks aloud about the places baby is going to see, and the things baby will smell and how safe baby will be, how happy baby will be … (This being all cheap therapy to convince myself it’s going to be okay, why pay for someone to say the same thing?) I’m always saying how we will be the ultimate team. Perhaps even partners in crime. Right now, we’re the same person, so it probably will be a hard thought to shake when my little nasty pooper is a person all on its own. I’ll have to remind myself we aren’t the same person anymore. Perhaps not always the best of friends either … motherhood and parenting isn’t the romantic dream I see in my head. Hard decisions and uncertainty will play the roles next to me on the stage of this production. A production temporarily titled, ‘The Rest of Your Life: What Were You Thinking?’

Speaking of what were you thinking moments, here’s a little pointless side note for you. Recently I had a pedicure with Lioness, while she was visiting and we were simultaneously avoiding our husbands. I picked out a racy sparkly red colour that I thought would be fun for a change (I usually go for clear or opaque pink.) However, after it was all said and done and my mom had footed the bill, I looked down and my toes screamed “HARLOT”. This I tried to ignore. Then at bath time that night, the toes that poked up and out of the foamy bath stuff whispered “seriously, not appropriate for mommies.” I ask you, what’s up with that? Is this a normal thing for pregnant women? Suddenly fancy push-up bras and nail polish are off the table? Should I be dumping my sexy undergarments and investing in the quintessential black sports bra that gives you the dreaded uni-boob?!

I suppose what it is in the end, is me trying to make this pregnancy feel like it is really a part of me and not just simply happening to me. Even as I get bigger and bigger and the kicks get stronger it still feels like it did seven months ago in that doctor’s office. When she told me I was pregnant … the world didn’t stop and I didn’t fly into a panic. I just felt disconnected from it, because it wasn’t supposed to be. How more real can it get at this point? I’ve seen it on screen, I’ve felt it move and I’ve heard its perfect little heartbeat. Yet, thinking forward I don’t see a little baby sitting there. It still feels a little lonely, like it always has. I’ve been a part of a happy family, but I was little lonely. I’ve had a best friend for going on twenty years, but apart from her true to form, I was lonely. I’ve been with my perfection-personified hubby for over six years, but still that little loneliness hummed in the background all the while. Now I’m with child, and I can’t shake that feeling and its presence stops me from believing this is all happening. Is the fear springing from the fact that sooner than later I’ll have something that altogether obliterates the loneliness that has followed me like a shadow my entire life? Am I actually afraid of not being lonely? How can loneliness be someone’s security blanket? How’s that for a complex — I stand corrected, paid-for therapy may be paramount among the things I desperately need.

It’s nothing like an emotional rollercoaster, it’s more like I’m constantly mixing up medications and I’m unaware if I’m taking the uppers or the downers. I talk to baby to make it a reality rather than a dream I keep having, but if it were really a case of me being disconnected from my own life, then why do I consistently sit up nights rehashing the past, feeling helpless and like a child having a child?

I ask you, where is the off-switch for crazy?