A Letter To My Pregnant, Child-Less Self...

Dear Judgey McKnows-It-All,

Right now, your due date is approaching, and you’re hyper focusing on a lot of insignificant stuff. I wish you knew that none of what you are worrying about matters. What you need to do is go to bed now and sleep until the baby comes. It could be your last chance to sleep for a few uninterrupted hours for the rest of your life.

What’s that you say? You’re not sleeping well because the pregnancy is making you so uncomfortable? Think again my friend. Soon you will be lying awake at 3AM in a pool of baby vomit, but you won’t want to move a muscle for fear of waking your precious little bundle of “sleeps when held.”

While we are on the topic of useless shit (pun intended) that you are obsessing over, it seems as though you are sitting around wondering if you’ll poop on the table during delivery. Guess what? When the time actually comes, you won’t care if fecal matter ends up on the ceiling as long as they get that baby the hell out of you faster than a teenage boy gets off on the latest Victoria’s Secret catalog.

Oh, and that book you’re reading on natural birth? Quit wasting your time with it and pick up a copy of What the Fuck Do I Do with this Baby? because once you’re actually in labor, you’ll tap out at three centimeters and beg for curbside epidural service as you pull into the hospital. Besides, the delivery is only one day, and the baby will be here for a l-i-f-e-t-i-m-e. Your time would be better spent learning something about child rearing rather than practicing breathing techniques that will do nothing for the pain, although, they might come in handy for your first bowel movement post childbirth.

On another note, you seem to have a lot of opinions on parenting right now, but you will quickly realize that you have no idea what you’re doing which reminds me that I should warn you about the bitch that Karma is. For all of the judgments you make now about other people’s parenting techniques, you will be sentenced to a lifetime of mom guilt laden thoughts. So, keep judging your friend who leaves her kids at daycare an extra hour so she can shop or cook by herself. In just a few short months, you will find yourself wishing daycare was open on weekends too. And the woman you saw at the grocery store in the frozen foods aisle whose nipples were pointing in different directions? Nice job criticizing her to your husband. Karma is about to replace your tits with two National Geographic style tube socks each holding a teeny, tiny ping-pong ball.

So, have that extra slice of cheesecake now while you’re still delusional. You think you are all belly, but it’s going straight to your ass. And, by the way, you won’t be one of those lucky women who loses weight from breastfeeding. You will be the mom whose kid shows up everyday for preschool without his folder, mismatching clothes, and maybe even a little bit of food still on his face while you’re wearing a moo moo not fit for your grandmother. Memories of a daily shower will seem as magical as monkeys flying out of your ass and serving you mojitos on the white sands of Maui. Soon, going to the dentist will be the most relaxing thing you have time for. You will see.

After the baby is born, between caring for him, your new found realization of what a dipshit your husband can be, and your post partum hormones, you will be so overwhelmed that you’ll start popping birth control like skittles just to make sure you don’t have a second child. Then, one night over a box of Franzia’s finest, you’ll find yourself just loopy enough to do it again.

There is only one thing that will get you through the stretch marks, the puke stains, and the depression over your saggy post birth vagina – the love that, right now, you are unaware even exists.

So hold onto your mom jeans and try not to wet your pants while you still have some level of bladder control – this ride is just beginning. Stop being a judgmental bitch and start supporting other moms. You’re going to need them once you realize that you don’t have a fucking clue what you’re doing…

Love, Me