Confessions

I have Ina May’s Guide to Childbirth on my bedside table. I had to fend off my SIL inquiries about whether I was hiding a secret love child under my sweater (nope that bump’s a pasta baby) when I received yet another order of birth and pregnancy books from Amazon.

I am currently obsessed with all things child related. Damn biological clock (cue scene from My Cousin Vinnie with Marissa Tomei).

Until about three years ago, babies were not my thing. I would choose puppies over kids any day. The boy and I actually had to have a big Talk, since I was always ambivalent to negative about the idea of having kids, and he decidedly wanted them.

Actually what he really wants is minions. He wants to have a team of mini ninjas that do his bidding. He’s in for a rude awakening. Or I am. He wants me to watch the movie Kevin and lovingly predicts that as our future. (Brief synopsis, the little boy is a psychopath, mom always seems to know and feels that he’s out to get her, dad cheerily brushes her fears off and bonds with son. Son does indeed turn out to be a psychopath)

So I sat back and concluded that I probably wanted kids, but was scared of the type of parent I would become, and more importantly, afraid of the loss of identity that I assumed came with the role of motherhood.

And then because I was scared I did what I always do. I over thought. I researched. I obsessed.

I’m a fact finder by nature, so I armed myself with knowledge. And I found many alternatives to what I thought was the only way to do things. And I started getting excited about having kids (one day eventually, not yet damn it!).

Cue the pregnancy books, and obsessive blog reading by smart moms. And babies, actually started to look cute.