I am a bundle of hormones and anxiety and a strange, driving need to do laundry.  My hormones make me moody and prone to oversensitive assertions that no one likes me, the anxiety keeps me up at night that the baby will be born any minute now and we’re just not ready yet what will he wear?!

The driving need to do laundry is a weird one, though.  I seriously want nothing more than to pour detergent into a machine, push buttons, and listen as water whooshes over precious little outfits.  Maybe it’s because this is one of the last things I have left to do to get ready for Squishy (this and also shopping for and buying cloth diapers).  There’s just something so nice about clean clothes, and clean baby clothes are even better.

I mean, the nursery is done.  The last thing we need for the nursery is a dust ruffle (which has been bought and is just waiting to have a ribbon sewn on it by Wes’ mother) but other than that the nursery is done.  Thank you notes for baby gifts have been written, we have wipes, baby shampoo, a carseat, a pediatrician, a stroller, toys, books, and a fuzzy bouncy seat.

Once we get that whole cloth diaper situation taken care of, we’re officially ready.  Except for the clothes.  Those still need to be washed and folded and put away, then taken out and re-organized, then lovingly admired at least a few times.  Then we’ll be ready.

Except we won’t be.  Because Wes is still looking for a job and I’m still trying to wrap up projects at work.  And we don’t have the laundry done.  And we don’t have cloth diapers.  So, what I’m saying is, we will be ready but maybe we won’t be.  Which isn’t helping my anxiety at all.

Also not helping matters is that two other bloggers whose due dates were rather close to mine have already given birth (Heather and Sarah, if you’re curious).  This is not giving me much security in the idea that we still have time to get our act together before this baby comes.

I’m not scared of the birth, or of breastfeeding, or of sleep deprivation.  I’m scared that this baby’s going to be born and Wes will still be looking for a job, none of the baby clothes will be washed, and I won’t be able to figure out his cloth diapers and we’ll just end up using them as expensive dust rags.

Veteran moms, please help me out: At what point does the imminent birth of your child feel more exciting than terrifying?

Oh my ever-loving sandwiches.  Look at the calendar.  Just look at it.  Where in the world did November go? How did we get to Thanksgiving?  I feel like I slipped into a wormhole, bonked my head on the side, and now I’m coming to with a nasty wormhole-hangover.

In some kind of prankish turn of the norm, time seems to be speeding up.  I always thought ten months of pregnancy (nearly a year, for goodness’ sake!) would seem like an eternity.  I was so very wrong as it’s become abundantly clear that ten months is no time at all.

I keep looking into our nursery, surveying the walls that need to be painted, the crib that needs bedding, the clothes that need a dresser, and feel something best compared to panic.  Squishy will be here any frigging day now and I shall have to scrounge around for twee little socks to put on his delicious little feet!  He won’t be pleased if he comes home to a non-colorful nursery and a naked crib, will he?

Wes assures me we have time.  He always looks at my frenzied eyes and backs away slowly to avoid startling me into a rampage, muttering platitudes like, “We have three months.  We have plenty of time.”

He does his best to be accommodating, but there’s really only so much one man can do in a weekend and there’s really more than enough Crazy to go around.  I’ve kept it contained for a good long while but it’s bursting out from around the seams.

What he doesn’t know is we actually have no time at all.  Because of the wormholes.  All I know is that if I wake up tomorrow and it’s February and I’m in labor?  I will grab a roller and paint that room myself.  Then I’ll have a baby.  If nothing else, his walls will be painted, gosh dang it.