You can call me AM. I’m pregnant. I’m 30 (god that seems old, all written out and shit) and have been married to Big A for six years. We always knew we wanted kids and he was ready six years ago. I’ve held him off this long and I’m not getting any readier.
So here we are. But honestly? Babies freak me the $%# out, looking like little crazy translucent skinned aliens and whatnot. I haven’t changed a diaper since I took a babysitting class when I was nine. And I changed a Cabbage Patch doll. When I babysat for real, I colored and ate cookies while my cousin did the dirty work. I think kids can start to be cute after their second birthday.
I will be holding a grudge against it for years to come. My favorite things in life? Beer, Coffee, Bourbon, Ham, Cookie Dough. I CAN’T HAVE ANY OF THESE THINGS. #$%@ you, Baby. I don’t look at babies and go “Awwwww!” I look at babies and go “Ugh.” Luckily, Big A fricking loves babies, so at least we’ve got that going for us.
There is no doubt I will love it unconditionally, but I can’t promise I’ll think it’s A-DOR-A-BLE. Who knows, maybe this thing will pop out with a Tyra Banks forehead and a third eye and I’ll still turn into goo and love and tell people it’s the most precious thing EVER. But until that day comes, this thing is a squatter stealing my vitamins and energy.
Questions? Comments? Concerns? Ideas? Want to insult me privately? Go ahead, I dare you: email@example.com