I am pregnant. Big shock, right? I’ve only posted about it for the last six months. It’s pretty well-known. But the fact is I have to remind myself every day. Even hourly. I forget about it minute to minute sometimes. I could say it’s because I feel so good this time around eating fairly decently, watching my weight gain, remaining active, and still going to the gym. In reality, I am having some sort of late-stage denial. If I don’t think about it, then it’s not happening.

I washed most of the clothes, got part way through the diapers, and then stopped making headway on any preparation for the thing to even exist here. Maybe things would be different if there was a separate room for the baby, or at least for all of the things that come along with taking care of a tiny person — clothes, diapers, rocking chair, co-sleeper, changing table, etc.

Maybe things would be different if I didn’t live with my parents. At nearly 65, they never dreamed they would be sharing the same space as a thirtysomething daughter and young grandson let alone a squalling infant with all its baby doo-dads and appliances. Everyone comments how lucky I am to have family around me, supporting me, but I am afraid to ask for help beyond a winter coat and vitamins because I feel like I am bringing home a puppy that nobody wants.

I don’t know how I will get my son to school if I can’t drive for a week or more when the thing gets here. I can’t ask my family to do it because he goes to school in a town that is half an hour away from our house. I am not whining about this as it’s partly my choice that he goes to his school there. It’s just hard.

And then there is the working out how will Daniel see the baby, when will Daniel see the baby? Will I take the baby to his house on nights that he has his son? Will he come here the other nights? We have fought about many things during this pregnancy. Where will the baby’s stuff be, who pays for what, what will the baby’s name be? So for the past few months we have been trying to take everything one day at a time, which has worked, and our relationship is better. But I am only 28 days from the due date and in the interest of not rocking the boat, we have not talked about ANYTHING. 

I have been calling all the shots because the thing is in my body, and I will be spending the most time with it, providing care during the day and most nights. I don’t want to split up my time between a house I don’t feel comfortable at and a house filled with people who resent me and what I’ve done. I want to be in some magical place where the baby and I can exist with minimal stress at least for a little while, but there is no place like that.

(Here is where I admit the depth of my indifference:)

I chose a name early on but have since stopped referring to the baby as anything more than “it.” I don’t want to think of a name or a Hebrew name, decide where the it will be born, plan a bris. I am told this is depression. I know that it is, but I am so alone in all of this, and I don’t want to do any of it.