Mixed feelings

I am four days away from my due date, and feeling pretty schizophrenic about the whole idea of a new baby.

"Any day now!" people say.

I always respond, "The sooner the better!" This is sometimes received with a knowing little laugh, particularly from women who have been through the baby waiting game.

But really that's only sort of true.

Yes, there is the part of me that is dying for this baby to arrive. I am tired of being fat, tired of not being able to sleep on my back, tired of my parents and my in-laws and even my husband, who should know better, and who now probably does after I screamed at him the other night, asking, "Anything yet?" Like I might fail to mention that I'm in the throes of active labor. Idiots.

Labor also offers a bit of excitement in what otherwise is a deathly boring, repetitive life.

But there is also small, still pool of dread in my chest about the arrival of this baby. A fear that there's not enough in me for another child, another helpless, screeching, pooping human with an endless need for me. Honestly, I am so tired lately I can barely get through the day being Henry's mom, and Henry is practically emancipated compared to an infant.

How can I possibly love this baby enough? How can I possibly love it as much as I love Henry? How can I possibly not resent this child for stripping me of my already meager writing, reading, and sleeping time?

These are not the thoughts I share with most other people I know. I think the accepted feeling toward an impending birth is joy. Saying I am not completely thrilled about the arrival of my new baby would be equivalent to saying I was planning on leasing it to a Satanic cult for extra income.

No wonder this baby won't come out.

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On another equally dark subject, I just got back from dinner at my mom's, so I am glowing with that special blend of anger and self-loathing that I get from spending time with her.

During dinner, I asked her not to interrupt her own meal to go play with him, because it's very important to me that he learn that there is a dinner time, and that although he doesn't have to sit at the table the whole time, other people will finish their dinner before they join him. That's reasonable, right? It's the radical notion that the world does not revolve around his every whim.

My mom, however, wants to give up her plate every time we have dinner together, because she can't stand to see him denied anything. So she looked peeved, and then said, "He just doesn't understand because usually when he's here I play with him the entire time."

I said, "I know. I can tell when he comes back home and can't tolerate playing by himself for five minutes."

OK, maybe that was snippy. But it's true. Henry is an angry little tyrant after spending extended amounts of time with his grandma.

But the comment obviously deeply hurt my mom, who hung her head as if to cry, and then didn't talk at all for another 10 minutes. Because, of course, we don't actually discuss things in our family. She prefers to silently communicate her victimhood, while I usually choose to smile, then go home and cut myself.

Again, no wonder this baby won't come out.