1. The idea of a real live human being gestating in my stomach probably would have made me throw up even more. Let's face it... the whole concept is very Sigourney-Weaver-Alien-ish.
2. It delayed the inevitable freak out moment.
But this early this morning, approximately 4 am, I had that moment.
It all sunk in. What we'd done. What was going to happen. The fact that our lives are never, ever, going to be the same again.
But more than that, I realized I'm going to be a mother. Not in theory. Not in a sometime-way-down-the-road scenario. But soon. In 30 weeks, to be exact.
And that's when I sat up in bed and mumbled, "What am I doing?"
Now some women never doubt their abilities. Some women know from the moment they're old enough to hold a baby doll they will be great mothers. But I'll be honest. Even as a child, even though I had a billion baby dolls and loved them all, I knew even then I wasn't that great at my job.
For example. This picture (the only topless picture I'll ever post of myself here, cross my heart) shows me holding my first and most prized baby doll. Her name was Sandra.
Sandra was loved. See the way I'm gripping her in a vice-like hug? That was my way of showing love. But Sandra also spent an inordinate amount of time lying face down on the floor. I knew, even at four, that baby dolls should not be treated that way. But I had more important things to worry about. Like finding a shirt to wear, or playing with blocks.
I also may or may not have tattooed her face with a ball-point pen.
This is example Number 2. Raggedy Anne was loved. She also accidentally went swimming in the bathtub. OK, not accidentally. I put her in there on purpose. I knew she had no business drowning in a full tub of water, but I put her there anyway. Because I wanted to see if she could float. See? Not a good mother.
And so early this morning, as the crickets chirped and mocked me from outside the bedroom window, I was paralyzed with fear. Can I be a good mother? Can I do a better job than I did with my dolls? Can I protect the soft spot on the top of Butch-Ann's head? Will I wake up during midnight cry-fests, or will I snore on while the baby screams in a dark room, alone, and develops psychotic tendencies?
As I pondered these things and my forehead dripped in cold sweat, the words of my Meme came back to me.
"You'll figure it out. Everybody does."
And so I took a deep breath and tried to count sheep. I slowed my breathing and tried not to to think of daycare selections, breast pumps or the fact that Matt and I might not notice when our toddler is watching a Victoria Secret commercial on tv. I'll take Meme at her word. Doll abuse or no doll abuse, I'll figure it out. Because Meme said everybody does.