The kid already has me awake at 5:30 a.m. on Christmas Day.

Merry Christmas, everyone. I encourage you to have cookies for breakfast today.

I’m one of those women who strongly considered adopting because I was so afraid of labor. A month or two after I got pregnant, I had a two-week period of complete freak out and sent this note to a girlfriend:

“Last night I had a mini breakdown and decided that I definitely do not want to push a baby out my vagina. I want even less to have major abdominal surgery. I do not want to feed another human being with my boobs. Also, I will not be pushing a baby out of my vagina. I cannot imagine what my boobs are going to look like after this, let alone my ass. I have never felt less sexy. Also, my vagina is very small. I do want to be a parent, but don’t really want to be a mom. Also, I will not be pushing a baby out of my vagina. No.”

I was irrationally, but seriously, trying to think of other ways to get the baby out of my body. Intense meditation? Osmosis? Teleportation device? How ’bout it, science?

Anyway, I’m OK now. The panic eventually subsided as I made a conscious decision to stop playing Worst Case Scenario. I refused to read anything having to do with labor and related complications, and began screaming, “Only happy stories, please! Only happy stories, please!” when mothers tried to share their graphic labor survival stories.

This was unfortunately necessary, because when you’re pregnant, conversation in a group of women goes like this:

Me: I’m freaking out about labor.

Susie: Don’t worry, you’ll be fine! Just fine! God, I hated being pregnant, though. I was on seven months of bed rest vomiting into a pan.

Lisa: Really? (Pulls air in through teeth.) Yeah, I threw up every single day. Twice. And, hello? Jacob was 11 pounds. I was in labor for 46 hours. They really should have given me a C-section, I was pretty ripped up afterwards.

Gina: And then you’re just praying that you’ll never have to poop again because the thought is so terrifying. My first bowel movement was practically as painful as giving birth. I was so afraid the stitches would pop right out!

Cut to me keening and desperately trying to place my head between my knees, despite the watermelon sized belly impeding my ability to do so.

Susie: Oh, honey! I’m sure you’ll be fine.

Lisa: You’ll be fiiiine. You’re going natural, aren’t you?

Gina: Oh, yeah. You have to go natural.

Why I avoid researching exactly what’s happening inside my body:

-The baby is excreting urine inside me.
-All babies are born with big boobs from absorbing so much of your hormones.
-Some female babies are born menstruating for the same reason.

Magical, no? Magical.

More questionable wisdom from my baby-update newsletter. This one is from an article about things that will change once you become a mom:

“18. If you have a son, you no longer curse men. (Hooray for all men!)

19. If you have a daughter, you hope she won’t endure your same heartaches.”

Apparently, before I got pregnant I totally hated men and found that the most notable aspect of being a woman was how it made my soul ache, like, constantly.

It’s our first day of birthing class, and all the women show up in sweatpants and T-shirts. I’m looking around thinking, really? We’ve all given up already?

Then the teacher says, “I know the handout mentioned that everyone should come in stretchy clothing, but we won’t be doing floor exercises until next week.”

Oh. The handout. Right.

My innie is finally a full-fledged outie, which kinda grosses me out. It’s killer sensitive and the skin is soft. People, the insides of your belly buttons are soft as the downy feathers of a baby chick! Of course, try to touch a newly hatched outie and you get an electric zing of discomfort. It’s similar to chewing tinfoil. But still. Soft!

In other pregnancy news, I’m starting to have No One Hurts This Baby dreams. In these dreams I have superhero baby-protection powers. I dreamt that terrorists tried to take me and Bryan hostage with hundreds of other people, and I knew I had to get out before they realized I was pregnant. I kee-yahed, and throat-punched, and clawed my way free. Then I sent Bryan a text message that said, “We’re safe. Get out.” And I waited for him at a coffee shop.

Today’s baby update email says “your belly may soon be big enough to announce to the world that you’re expecting.”

Soon? Soon?! Eat it, baby update. Strangers have been offering me seats and pointing out uneven spots on the floor for three weeks. Everyone is making twin jokes, which by the way are hilarious. Hilarious in a way that makes you cry and cry and cry.

Other things that are making me cry include:

– The Jetta commercial where the two guys crash and fly forward into the air bags. But then they’re OK! Just standing there all safe-like by the car! And honey, I just bought a Jetta. OK?
– The part in “I Hope You Dance” by Lee Ann Womack where she sings “DAAAAANCE! I hope you da-a-a-a-ance.”
– The Where the Hell is Matt video (via Andrea)
– The hotel shower gel that smells like the honeysuckle in my childhood backyard.