Cramps Carved From The Sub-Basement Of Hell kept me up half the night and I lay there wondering if labor will suck this much. Maybe not, if those magic mommy hormones kick in…
And what am I even talking about? Ever notice how you can conjure an idea like this – some crazy detail about “labor” or “walking on the moon” or “poisoning unfriendly relatives” – and it feels imminent enough that you start to wonder what shoes you should wear for the occasion.
Meanwhile, the other half of the time it feels entirely fictional. Clearly I’m not pregnant and never have been. So there’s a snide gloating part of me that maintains hard-headed proof that it’s not possible. I think I’ve met people like that on planes. They’re usually Republicans and really hard to argue with.
Or maybe I’m actually superstitious. I keep catching myself describing my intentions in a somewhat removed, highly structured hypothetical.
(unless, of course, your cat groks abstract spatial division)
Something like this… “if I put up a baby gate, the cats can get over it to get to the litter box, but a kid won’t be able to.”
A kid.
Riiiiight.
Completely fooled the pregnancy goblins that time!
Well whatever. It beats astrology any day – I’m already bored of people telling me what an intense pain in the ass my Scorpio kid is going to be.
my DIY baby 