This morning I found myself immersed in a deep conversation with the contents of my uterus.
It's not like I haven't held conversations before with beings that cannot possibly actually respond in a common language--I talk to my cats most days. I have been known to heckle a tree or two in my day. I've even cooed at my various pieces of technology that just needed a bit of coaxing to function. But speaking to my own body is new.
It's happened. I finally caught the baby fever. Maybe I just read enough books to feel like I may actually have a clue how to care for a human creature under the age of two. Maybe I was swept away by the awesomeness of cottonbabies, a company that makes cloth diapering systems that humans who are not super-adept supermoms can actually use. Maybe feeling the little one squirming around on a regular basis makes the whole thing more real. Maybe it's just third trimester hormones kicking in.
Whatever it is... I'm finally at that gross, gooey-eyed, baby-obsessed stage where everything on my to-do list, every thought that forms in my brain, nearly every piece of media I absorb is centered around all things baby. Preparing for baby, shopping for baby, talking about baby. Baby, baby, baby. I make myself sick when I think about it from an objective point of view. But I can't be objective here. Baby is too damned important. Dudes, I'm responsible for the care, formation, and rearing of another human. It's like I'm Dr. Frankenstein here--IT'S ALIVE!!! And we all know where that story ended...
At the same time, a powerful need to indulge and appreciate these final months of me-focused Diana life has taken over. Whenever I find those baby fever urges taking over the animal cortex of my brain, I suddenly find myself in a car, driving to a cafe or restaurant to sit for a few hours over some yummy indulgent drink or food and read a novel. I have to cling to this last quiet resistance of solitude and peace and adult independence. I nap whenever I can, precisely because I can do so right now. I'm making plans with people I haven't seen in months/years.
It's like storing up for winter. I'm the ant of young adult self-obsession.
Most of my blog readers (that I know of) don't have kids. I don't really want Going Places to turn into something that resembles the blog version of the people mocked for the their facebook status updates on STFU, Parents, but it does seem likely I'm going to need a place to obsessively recount my (mis) adventures in booby feeding, poo obsession, and indulgent bragging about the wonder of my perfect infant. I don't plan to subsume my identity on the almighty alter of motherhood, but let's be honest here--from the time the kid finally arrives, mommy brain will likely take over.
To that end, I'm working on a blogging solution that should enable me to balance the two competing lizard brains of my soul--the independent woman who started this blog, and the woman who's about to become a mom. (There are hints of it in a blog I started on wordpress about a year ago.) For now, I will just say that most of the reason for my failure to post here is an inability to self-regulate the conflicting nature of my interests, and my desire to spare my loyal readers the indecencies of pregnancy.
For those of you who've been craving the nasty oh-my-god-my-boobs-are-now-eclipsed-by-the-massiveness-of- my-belly and middle-of-the-night-gross-bodily-function updates, I promise that I'll have a separate place for that so that you may sympathize with (or mock) me to your hearts' contents in the upcoming weeks.
I will be posting such Mama Drama and Baby Obsessive posts at my new blog, The Parentally Challenged. Enjoy!