41+ prego.

So, I have officially lost my mind.

I try to dress the part so people avoid me.

No clothes fit me, so the bottom few inches of my huge prego belly hang out constantly. I don’t own maternity shorts, so I wear running shorts, which seriously makes my newly-plump lower half look like freshly churned sausage in a death-grip nylon-spandex blend casing.

I spend just about all day trying to launch my body into active labor, which means I walk around my hood looking like this. Only I don’t just walk. I’m doing lunges, squats – and yes, I’m even jumping. Have you ever seen an over-due pregnant woman jump in clothes that don’t fit her? If you ever need to be jolted into abstinence, I’m certain that burning image would do it.

Fortunately, I have an extremely negative attitude to balance out this comical charade, in that pretty much everything everyone says makes me want to hit them.

Maybe when you are pregnant, you should receive a permit from the government granting you the right to be mildly violent at will. I don’t want to break anyone’s nose or anything – I just want to teach people a lesson with the palm of my hand.

I know that sounds harsh, but really, I think it’s totally logical. People need to know that they shouldn’t ask you when you are due, because due dates mean nothing. They were invented – probably by a MAN – to drive pregnant women crazy.

People need to know that I don’t care how late they went with their babies. Your pregnancy ended – mine is interminable. Stop talking and offer me some of that ice cream sandwich you’re eating.

I recently spoke with a woman who gave birth to her son a week past her due date. She said, “You know, I loved every second of being pregnant. Even going late – I just relished every second. It’s just a blessing to be pregnant in the first place.”

I cannot believe she escaped that conversation with all her teeth.

Listen, chicky babe, I’m all in when it comes to feeling blessed with a healthy pregnancy and baby. However, with a baby on top of my bladder and two-sizes-too-small shorts creating upward pressure, I’m pretty much a ticking time bomb.

Right now, all I want you to do is tell me – with a straight face – that I look amazing and you can’t BELIEVE I still fit in my non-maternity clothes. You aren’t allowed to say anything else.

I really don’t want to tell you that despite contractions all day, every day, no, I don’t feel like I’m close to giving birth.

I really don’t want to tell you that when I start thinking about it, I get so sad because I am so ready to meet this baby and for some reason it just doesn’t want to meet me yet.

What I really want to do is to have this baby. And since I can’t have it yet, I’m going to do whatever the “H” I want until it’s time to push. I’m going to do squats in the waiting room at the chiropractor. I’m going to do jumping jacks dangerously close to the bulldozers and dump trucks that roam the streets in our under-construction neighborhood.

And I’m going to wear ridiculous clothes and threaten violence at will.

So, I’m guess what I’m saying is ... just steer clear of me for a bit. I’m just a brightly colored, poorly assembled mosaic. I look like a lot of fun from a distance, but up close, I’m in shambles. A fat, heaving sausage in shambles.

Yeah huh it's hard!

I just knew she was going to come up and say something to me. Most people were. I suppose an about-to-pop pregnant lady at a destination wedding sort of sticks out.

“Hi there,” she said. “I just wanted to tell you that you look great, and don’t worry – being a parent isn’t as hard as everyone says it is.”

I chewed on that for a moment. Clearly, she mistakenly thought this was my first. But that wasn’t what gave me pause.

“Being a parent isn’t as hard as everyone says it is.”

Yikes. It isn’t?

This woman is about my age and had her 6-week-old son with her at the wedding. I guess he must be a great sleeper. I guess he never had “fussy time” at that age like Monster did.

Or maybe she just wears parenting better than me.

Or maybe ... she’s just a bright-eyed newbie without a clue.

Moments after her shocking comment, I walked inside for the mother-son dance. My sister-in-law watched as tears poured from her eyes.

“One day, I’ll have to do that,” she said, clearly thinking of her three beautiful boys. “I’ll be dancing with one of my sons and I’ll have to let them go and live their life.”

Much, much later that night, I tiptoed into my sister’s room where my 2-year-old nephew was screaming uncontrollably. My sister was kneeling beside the bed, begging to know what would calm him.

She looked at me with pleading eyes. “I just ... I just don’t know what to do!”

I scooped him up in my arms to give her a break and watched through the window as my husband was trying to soothe our own screaming toddler, who earlier that day was diagnosed with an ear infection.

The wedding girl’s words echoed in my mind. “It isn’t as hard as everyone says it is.”

Well, newbie, if you find parenting easy, congratulations. I’m only a few years in and I can’t tell my right hand from my left most days, much less be on point with organic vs. nonorganic, cloth vs. disposable, breast milk vs. formula, cry it out or attachment parenting, etc.

Parenting is a balancing act. Some days, the scale tips in favor of long naps and happy babies. Some days, the scale crashes and burns an inferno that is all-consuming and leaves you a tattered mommy.

Maybe wedding girl was having a great day when she made that comment. Or a great six weeks. Maybe she’ll go her entire life without feeling parenting is difficult because she has figured out how to maintain a good balance.

And those of us who haven’t done so secretly hate her. That’s our right as parents. We can secretly loathe the mommies and daddies who have it together, who have endless patience and who think this parenting thing “isn’t so hard.”

Had someone told me, “See? Isn’t parenting easy?” when I first had Monster, I think I would have crumpled into a tearful pile of overwhelmed-Mommy-mush.

At the wedding, I simply smiled and told her I also had a toddler at home, and I love being a mommy.

I think parenting is hard. But brushing off ridiculous comments that make me question my capabilities? That’s easy.

This ain't my first rodeo

Mindgames.

That’s all this is anymore, little one. You are just messing with me at this point, and I have to warn you, I am the queen of competition.

I see what you’re doing, little one. Well done. You have begun the battle of wits from inside the womb. You clever little stinker.

Out here, on dry land, we call what you are doing prodromal labor.

Early on, I felt bad for you because you’re the one in there feeling the squeeze. Then the contractions would stop, and you would start kicking away like you’re skipping through a damn meadow.

I’m on to you. This game will eventually develop into the “I dropped it AGAIN, pick it up” diversion your brother mastered around nine months.

I’m not sure why you mini monsters want to test our limits.

And I have to say, only a handful of babies do so well with it before they are born.

Your brother tried the same tactic as you, just so you know, so you’re not original or anything. About a week before he was born, he started to tease us with round-the-clock contractions. They’d get so intense that we would call the doula and say, “OK, this has to be it this time, right?”

And I let your brother win. He got the best of me and that entire week, I didn’t want to talk to anyone or see anyone. Every person who asked, “Are you ever going to have that baby?” went running for their lives when I got through with them.

But this time, little one, you’re dealing with a pro. This ain’t my first rodeo.

I’m keeping all my plans. I WILL go on playdates. I WILL continue to work. I WILL be at the gym.

This time around, I’m not going to worry about the calendar or due dates.

Timing contractions? HAH. I remember when I worried about that. Not happening this time, baby. I know the second I start watching the clock, those contractions will dissipate and you’ll be in utero devilishly grinning.

I am not going to worry about going out in public for fear that my water will break someplace inconvenient and I will be incredibly embarrassed. Go ahead and break it, tiny, break it allll over the grocery store or park. I’ll wear those wet pants proudly the whole way home.

What, you think you can psych me out by keeping me up half the night with gut-wrenching surges every few minutes? I’ve got an ace up my sleeve, you little ball-buster, and it’s called NAP TIME. Happens every day, and I regain my strength to battle you once again.

Oh, and thanks for the dry heaving the other night. I started to think it was a sign of early labor. Good thing I got wise quick and remembered your plot to slowly chip away at your mother’s sanity. I chalked it up to a great ab workout, wiped the drool from my face and went back to sleep.

So bring it. Bring the pain. Keep teasing me with endless hours of tight squeezes and what I like to call “lightning crotch.”

You have no idea what you’re up against, my infantile, formidable foe. This mind has mastered marathons and annoying co-workers. My brain has gone head-to-head with ignorant political facebook posts. I have decades of experience playing mindgames with men – and you think YOU’RE going to match my wits?

GAME ON.

Big, fat baby

Should you ever find yourself too huge/lacking ab strength to roll oneself off the couch, and you are in dire need of ice water, apparently it is completely natural to simply cry until your caretaker comes rushing to your side to ask what you need.

And should you get yourself so worked up crying that you throw yourself mercilessly into a coughing fit and are unable to answer your caretaker when they ask what you need, it’s a given that they will also get frustrated because they cannot figure out how to simply SHUT YOU UP AND MAKE YOU PLEASE STOP CRYING.

And this is how bronchitis during my last few weeks of pregnancy sent me reeling back into infancy.

I used to think pregnancy was a good way to prepare you for being a parent. After all, you can’t sleep, you sacrifice tons for someone else and you never, ever feel sexy because there is always food on your clothes and your hair hasn’t been washed in a week. It’s a natural transition from pregnancy to parenthood.

Now, however, I don’t think I’m preparing for a baby; I feel as though I am just becoming a baby.

I can remember the exact moment I had this breakthrough. I was curled into the fetal position on the couch, coughing uncontrollably and - admittedly - wetting myself for the umpteenth time.

(Look, I have a 10-pound baby bouncing on my bladder. A teeny sneeze causes incontinence; bronchitis = biblical flood.)

Back to the breakthrough.

I was incredibly hungry and thirsty but couldn’t fathom the thought of moving. Oh, and the dog was barking at someone walking by our home, which startled me, which is how I began coughing and crying and peeing in the first place.

Did I mention I have a toddler I am somehow responsible for while in this state?

I was helpless. Completely helpless. Scared, hungry and feeling incredibly disgusting, I did the first thing that came to mind: I called my mom.

“Would it help if I flew down and stayed for a few days until you got better?”

I couldn’t even respond. I just cried.

So let’s recap: I’m wearing what most would consider adult diapers, crying around the clock and the only thing that can make it better is my mom.

Yup – I am a baby. A big, fat baby with another baby in its belly.

And I only have a few weeks to mature into a capable adult who can care for the actual baby who also will be in diapers, crying around the clock and need its momma to make anything better.

It’s quite terrifying, actually, because after a while, you get used to being doted on. Now I get why the “Terrible Twos” happen; we spend the first few years of a kid’s life rushing to their aid every time they make a peep, then they become a toddler and we decide, “Nope, you need to sleep on your own/feed yourself/ask for things nicely/use a toilet.”

That’s a pretty rude awakening.

My mom left on Sunday, and I threw myself a little tantrum upon realizing that I’d have to now cook, clean and shower. I suppose that’s what responsible adults do.

But I may have to stay in the adult diapers until Baby No. 2 comes. What? It’s not like babies make it to the toilet EVERY TIME, either.

Core lessons

Monster and I walked into the 70-degrees-and-sunny weather. He had spent all morning at work with David, and I had filled the time working.

My son – whom we were told needed “even more food in his lunchbox” – looked at me and said, “I have that? I have apple, please?”

I hadn’t eaten in hours, we had a 20-minute drive ahead of us and my stomach rumbled loudly, complemented by the baby furiously kicking.

I glanced between the apple in my hand and my son’s pleading eyes.

I couldn’t resist, so I let him have the first bite. He also got the second, third and fourth bites. His teeny mouth left dime-sized mini-craters scattered carelessly around the fruit.

Funny, I thought. This kid has no idea how to eat an apple.

Then again, it’s not like I do, either. A “lost tooth” incident in my youth had resulted in slicing the apple. I wouldn’t even know how to navigate eating an apple without a knife and traumatic flashbacks.

“Picnic?” Monster asked, implying that he’d like to sit somewhere and eat outside.

Why not, I thought. We sat in the middle of the sidewalk and passed the apple back and forth between us.

“Park?” he asked a handful of juicy bites later.

Of course, I thought. It’s a beautiful day and there is a park nearby.

The entire drive, Monster kept nibbling at the apple, baby-crater-bite by baby-crater-bite.

When we got to the park, he insisted we climb to the top of the play set and sit down in the little bit of shade there was in between slide entrances.

“Momma, your turn?” he said, offering me what was probably only my fourth bite.

As the red of the apple slowly gave way to more and more of the white fruit showing, my son and I had a wonderful conversation. We talked about the letter “A,” bugs and why babies cry.

Monster didn’t even look at the apple before biting into it. Wherever his mouth landed, he took a bite. I watched him start chipping away at the core.

By this point, he had slobbered over the fruit so much that in my apple-snobbery I declined any more bites.

He certainly didn’t mind. He held the apple in one hand and used the other to gesture at cars going past or clouds floating above us, apple juice drooling out of either side of his mouth as he spoke.

He talked about his hopes (“Have donuts for lunch?”), his fears (“Momma! Dere’s a dragon over dere!”) and his regrets (“I broked it. I broked da flowerrrr”).

Naptime eked closer, and he curled into my lap, now able to palm what was left of the apple.

“Want to go home and read books, friend?” I asked, my stomach still devastatingly empty.

“Ok, Mommy.”

I buckled him into his car seat, and he shoved the remaining piece of fruit into his mouth. He had eaten every last bit – seeds, stem, core, everything. I made a mental note to Google if it’s safe to do that and drove my little man home.

He kissed me before I tucked him into bed, his lips still sticky-sweet.

“Enjoy your nap, baby. And thanks for teaching me how to eat an apple.”

A-bombs and F-bombs.

I know we are dealing with a real North Korea threat right now, so jokes about nuclear warheads may seem off-color.

But I feel that any parent to a toddler understands me when I say this: Every day is a North-Korea-threat-level day.

Two-year-olds are magical bombs that can detonate, put themselves together and then detonate again.

They have fuses that vary in length, and certain accelerants can burn those fuses up quicker than you can say, “Do you need a time out?”

As parents, our job is to figure out how to deactivate the bomb before zero-hour, and we do this over and over and over again, only rarely with success.

I’m sure there are classes that real-life bomb-defusers take that teach them how to do this before they move to practical application.

We don’t have that luxury.

We just watch explosion after explosion, suffer the physical and emotional damage of detonation and hope that we caught a glimpse of what caused it to better prepare us for next time.

In our case, Monster is typically like one of those dinky bombs that sometimes goes off, sometimes doesn’t, and damage is usually minimal – perhaps a cracked toy or two and some tears mostly caused by the noise and not so much any real harm.

But, as most 2-year-olds are, he has the capability of A-bombing a situation (which admittedly, leads to Mommy F-bombing a situation very loudly inside her own head).

I’m talking widespread devastation, terrifying anyone within earshot. And the effects of those explosions are certain to last a lifetime. I worry about my unborn child’s exposure to these situations and how it will affect him/her in the years to come.

After witnessing – and somehow surviving – several of these mushroom clouds, I have shrewdly figured out what the trigger is.

Trains.

Freakin’ trains.

Any other toy has the potential to set off a dinky-bomb situation, but trains elevate it to nuke status.

I feel like an undercover assassin, constantly on the lookout for trains so I can isolate and destroy before the little Monster sees them.

Sadly, I’m a terrible undercover assassin, and this week alone we have had two doomsday situations. There was the time at a play date when we walked in to find a beautiful track and four cars laid out before us.

That left a stunned mother and child standing at their front door, mouths agape, watching as the damage spread from their home into their front yard.

Then there was the time at the zoo. We were so blissfully immersed in wildlife that I almost didn’t hear it coming. In fact, I feel like it made a point to sneak up on us, waiting until it was just yards from us before sounding its chilling bell.

That blow-up left several casualties, including a zoo-train-conductor whom Monster tried to forcibly eject from his seat in the engine.

I have done a sweep of our home and removed all trains and train paraphernalia.

However, I am at a loss as to how to control the outside world. Every play date, every outing can mean certain disaster.  My only solace is in finding other parents, other survivors, who tell me that it gets better.

Because it does get better ... right?