It’s almost April and that means I’m going to be a mother soon. I need a couple more months. Let’s do the second trimester over, I liked that time. There was no sickness, no protruding belly, minimal panic. I was just getting used to the idea of being pregnant, of a living lentil bean swimming around in my barely-there womb.
I get asked a lot about the nursery, this Shangri-la that I’m supposed to have erected by now. But there is no nursery, folks. There are spaces I’m hoping will be cleared by the time I deliver. I drove out to Sammamish last week to buy a glider and ottoman. I told the woman that I’m due on the 29th and she said in a shocked gasp, “Oh you’re so close!” as if by not buying the chair sooner, I had already screwed myself. Why do I have to have a nursery? Couldn’t I just construct something out of boxes and dairy crates and hope the boy grows into it? Boys love forts, don’t they?
And because it’s almost April, it’s almost time for my own mother to invade my life. Many have commented that it’ll be a good thing to have my mother around. I agree. I’ll need the help. However, this is my mother we’re talking about. The woman steals menus that have pictures in them (Seriously! There’s a drawer on Saipan full of menus from Carrows and Shari’s) and she drinks her hot water from a bowl because “cups don’t hold enough” for her. She doesn’t agree with used clothing, which is why I won’t tell her about my midnight dives at the Goodwill donation bin. (That’s a joke. I wait till morning).
This pregnancy is really cutting into my “sitting down” time.