Three Weeks to Go

If LO is on time, I have three more weeks until he gets here. (Actually, it was three weeks yesterday. Now I have 20 days).

I'm still waiting for some official to come to me and J and explain that LO will be going home with real grownups. Or that this has all been some elaborate hoax and I'm really gestating an alien. That will be going home with real grownups.

So, without further ado, here are the top ten reasons why I don't feel grownup enough to take on responsibility for an infant. Or an alien.

10. J and I say the F word. A lot. We both like the film The Big Lebowski, and I can see us saying to LO, in the same friendly way that we say it to the animals and each other, "Shut the f*ck up, Donnie." I can't imagine that this will be good for burgeoning self esteem.

9. I can't stand baby music. Or baby television shows. I will raise my child on a diet of The Pixies and 30 Rock. I feel that this is the entertainment equivalent of feeding my child escargots after weaning. Will his system be able to handle anything that good that quickly?

8. I still don't completely understand what a Diaper Genie is.

7. I am both a snob and wallower in rank awfulness. Don't even ask to see what books I have downloaded on my Kindle. I am incapable of reading middle of the road literature--only the greatest of the great or shite that should never have been published. (And just guess which I read more of. I'll wait.) With my belief in balance, I am presenting a *terrible* example.

6. If I'm super sleepy in the evening, I skip brushing my teeth. (Marissa, if you're reading, I'm so so sorry). Dental hygiene is supposed to be important to a parent!

5. Neither J nor I have practiced diapering. We can't imagine that the cats would be amenable to that indignity, but we haven't practiced on baby dolls or footballs or anything else, either. There's going to be a lot of nastiness around our house as diapers fall off, etc.

4. Speaking of house nastiness--in 31 years, I still have not figured out the relatively simple task of how to clean. Is there some secret? Will I just need to cover the child in swiffer pads once he's mobile? I suspect I could make a jumper of some kind out of swiffers if that would help. (For that matter, why don't I just wear swiffer clothes? If I'm not working for a paycheck, it would make puttering around the house multi-tasking. I think there might be a business idea in here somewhere).

3. We seriously considered naming LO Oliver. Now, that's not so bad. I like the name, which is a big part of our consideration. But I started thinking about the name after watching the most wonderful, ridiculous action/comedy-ish movie called Shoot 'Em Up. Oliver was the name Clive Owen gave to the baby he delivered in the middle of a gun fight, and whose umbilical cord he cut by shooting it. I *love* irreverence. Perhaps too much. If I can't take my child's name seriously, then I might as well name him Cactus Pete. Or Awise Guy. LO will either be a far-too-old-for-his-age cynical comedian, or he'll be a sensitive type who is horrified by my lack of reverence. Either way, Oliver is out.

2. I don't always eat my vegetables. And I KNOW better! There are just so many other tasty options out there. (And as for J, I'm not sure how often he would eat vegetables at all if I didn't make them and put them in front of him.)

And the number 1 reason I don't feel like a real grownup:

1. Have you read the rest of this blog?

I go to a water aerobics class at the Y several mornings every week. Other than the instructor, I am the youngest person there by a good 20 years. (I have a point, believe me). The ladies are sweet and funny and motherly and very interested in my pregnancy. The other day, as we were walking out after class and I was lamenting J's and my lack of readiness (in terms of house chaos, in terms of baby-stuff-ness, in terms of grownuphood), one of the ladies told me "Well, your baby's never had a mother before, either. He'll have no idea that what you do is anything other than right and normal."

Thank G-d for the wisdom of chlorine-soaked Hoosier Mamas. (And I didn't say "Shut the f*ck up, Donnie," to ANYONE for the rest of that entire day).