It's hard not to feel dissolved.
The identity of funny girl, artist chick watered down to a clear liquid and brought back to a boil to first time mom and all that carries. Struggling to thicken, wondering if I ever will again.

It's hard not to feel trapped.
Home for seasons on end-- depression to bed rest to baby to baby to winter to now. Identity in a cave, mortality around the corner, and life right in front of you... delicate... with ten little fingers and ten little toes.

It's hard not to feel invisible.
Spending all this time looking down and lifting up the tiny human mirror that I've created leaves little time to worry about eyebrow hairs, fashion, attraction, health, and I end up looking like a neglected juniper bush, akimbo in the shocking sun and wind.

It's hard not to feel unattractive.
Two plus years without riding a bicycle, without hiking, without swimming, without movement and sweat and consistency and muscle and aches. Pale skin with new textures, new colors, bruises and veins. Avoiding your reflection cuz you rather like the way the little one sees you over the way you see yourself. Plus, looking down at your body just means more looking down at your body.

It's hard not to be jealous.
Jealous of the love that can be given so freely to her and the effort that has to go into loving me, who created her. Jealous that she's gotten all the best of me and I'll never really know what that feels like. Jealous that other Moms get love while giving love and aren't diminishing their wells. Jealous that these feels don't exist for other people. 

And you stop and think about how foolish you were to think that the Upgrade to Motherhood was a linear thing and silly to think it had a beginning, middle, and end. I know full well that time is relative. Time doesn't end and Upgrades don't end when you have a one year old. It doesn't end when I turn 36.
It doesn't end.

It's hard not to be lonely.
Guess I'm supposed to be the leader of this little family--the head of household. A Mom is shielding, strong, full of answers, and lugs a purse full of snacks. I really want to take care of someone who doesn't need me, but who wants me. I feel way too fucking cool to being doing this alone and it's hard not to let that mentality? thought? hope? strength? crumble when each day it's brightness fades... kind of like a gemstone that dulls from over wear or a piece of glass that curves over time from the grinding of the tide on the beach.

It's a metaphor I use often...
Wait, is it metaphor??

I'm no longer sure it is metaphor.
Is it even a figure of speech?

I don't mean it rhetorically.
The high road is a path that I choose daily when it comes to my perspective on coparenting and dealing with FOB. It's a tangible visualization, I can smell the soil and hear the scrape of the rock under my feet. 
It started in a field. I felt like I had been dropped there after some sort of out of body experience or alien abduction. Dawn breaking over hills and solitude, it is just me and my body ready to work and keep working--from child labor to emotional labor to manual labor.
Yeah.
It's not a figure of speech.

Aw, man.
It has to do with morality?
Catholic school just absolutely formed and ruined me on that at the same time.
Fine.
Let's do that one, too.

OK. I think I've got the gist of that one. I mean, granted, in my existence (as with most humans I think), I have created a gray ground of moral ambiguity so I could sway between, learn from, and exist in right and wrong without hating myself or over loving myself. Like, that line between the black and white part of a yin yang? It's gray.

I guess the point of this post is this.
I joke? confess? profess? declare? state? exist? in a place with coparenting where I feel like I build the high road on a daily basis. One little goddess shoulder Mallory says, "fuck that cocksucker he dumped you make him pay {insert maniacal, hurt laughter here} and other Little goddess shoulder Mallory says, ''think of the kid, think of forever, think and build... even if it's hard."
And that's who I've tried to listen to for the past year.

It's fucking hard.
It's me after a year of building. I have a sunburn and my hands are no longer pretty. Water is running low but it looks like it's going to rain soon.
I have one giant rock in each hand.
Fingers clenched around each piece of earth, withered, broken, bloody, and nails bent.
Feet underneath each fist exhausted, confused, vulnerable, holding the world upright. Moving forward continuously with the occasional stumble, building the road as you go means it's always behind you. More earth to move, more to labor.
This birds eye view of these hands backed by a mind of thought.... wondering what it will do today.
Will it take each rock and smash whatever (or whomever) is in the way to smithereens?
Will it continue to build?
Will there be an alarm that goes off before the bloodshed at least?

Oh, the bloodshed.... it's a metaphor.

There is wine all over the house—in the garage, behind the bar, in the family room, upstairs, and in my closet. Bottles ranging from 1970somehing to 2012 yada ya. Every kind of red wine you can imagine.
(I drank the white, but, to be honest, there wasn’t much of it) My Dad collected? hoarded? wine for years and years until he retired, wanted more mobility? flexibility? space? and gave it all away.
I feel like I’ve seen some talk regarding Mommy/Wine culture as of late and... to that I say:

• ​to each your own
• make good choices
• don’t be a douche
• share with a friend

It’s not my place to shame, to scrutinize, or to categorize moms who like that glass of wine. Like my OB said about prenatal sipping—“as long as that glass doesn’t become the bottle, you’re fine.”
I think that applies across the board to all, always.

I was a bartender for many years—The Zephyr Lounge, Redrock Bar, Jub Jub’s Thirst Parlor, all over Reno (and Black Rock City) with the oddball gig other places. I slang the hooch, listened to the drunks, laughed til the wee hours, and hung over many mornings. I stood and watched youngsters and old farts alike pound PBR, snort booger sugar, and chain smoke into friendships, arguments, and tomorrow’s. I dated bassists, door guys, coworkers, and good tippers. I danced to the jukebox, cheers’d the newlyweds, and tossed shitheads out the door. It was a great job and it taught me a lot about the human dynamic, the human condition, and choices along with their consequences.
Those were my twenties and I lived them hard, year round.

These days the smell of whiskey makes me nauseous, I can’t even take a shot on my friend’s memorials.
These days the thought of being hungover sounds like a nightmare.
These days Tylenol is put to better use on joint pain and sleep deprivation headaches.
These days I can’t afford, literally cannot afford, to drink.
These days I don’t smoke.
These days my favorite bar is closed.
These days I’ve got Nugget and she’s more important than anything.

But...

Sometimes I like to drink a heavy wine glass of red wine really fast just to feel less for twenty minutes,
Less sober, less controlled, less back pain, less poor.

Sometimes on around 11am some days it feels like the day has doubled itself in length and instead of cooking another baby friendly meal it’s easier for me to crack a lager. Just one. For calories and cuz I can.

Sometimes on my few “days off” baby I reach out to people to grab a drink cuz I am thrilled at the idea of being able to go park my car, get out of it alone, and enter the forbidden building within two minutes with only my purse.

Sometimes when I have ten bucks I’d rather put it in a pennies machine and pretend my life is different while I push the same insane buttons over and over and over.

Sometimes I feel like a bar is the only place where people talk to other people and I am so tired of talking to myself, I would rather sit alone on a stool in a crowd.

No fuckin’ judgies.



​

There’s a park by my house where it happened.
A year ago, more already.
Time flies when you don’t? can’t? won’t? look up.
Across one busy road where traffic halts for a stroller and down a small hill to the geese, pavement and rock encircle a lake. A lake with a park I remember playing at in first grade. A lake where I remember releasing my brothers pet turtles in the 90s when my mom got sick of their stench. When I was sixteen I was grounded for the summer and the only place I could run to was literally running around this mile stretch of lake and land. I never ran so much in my life—and me and my giant boobies and shin splints are not runners! Once or twice I saw my mom cruising, creepin hella slow around the lake in her red suburban, making sure I was where I said I would be.
Moms, amirite?
There’s this little hillscape on the southwestern ish corner of the water where geese go to snack, crows to murder, and folks to contemplate both. Between sage brush and tree are metal benches, for view, for thought, and for privacy. The elderly feed critters, take rest, and birds seem to go out of their way to shit on these benches.
It was here last November where it happened.
I had gotten here early to collect myself and reread the notes I’d tried to memorize earlier. The ones about crucial conversations and listening with love and quieting defenses. I’d been lent this book and it resonated so deeply with me that I thought it was the answer to all our problems.... which at that moment, was me. All me.
I had gotten there early to smoke a cigarette.
Okay, fine, two. In secrecy and shame.
I made my way over to the green bench, the one facing north, the one half shaded and chilly.
I waited and rehearsed, imagined, and planned. I waited openly, with eagerness, with child and with faith.
It was cold and we were both wearing carhartts, but only I showed up to do work.
You arrived with your decision on your face.
This relationship was over and launched to its end like a torpedo and I didn’t even get to turn my key. It felt like the most major of decisions in the whole entire world had been made without me.
I don’t think I cried until I got back to the car... I didn’t stop crying until the year ended.

I had to avoid this bomb sight of a lake bench for sometime after that. Take an alternative route, avert my eyes. I remember regretting having agreed to meet you there, this sacred, historical lake to me. After I stopped crying and the pills began to kick in (and I would leave my house) I would let? make? myself walk the path around the water most every day. As I would approach the hillscape to the bench I would look and I would see and I would remember. Sometimes I would cry, sometimes I would be angry, sometimes I would turn the music up. I would just glare at that bench and wonder and replay. The bench became an icon I fixated upon... I dreaded it’s eye contact and yet it fueled me.
It’s now November again and the city has been kind enough to pay special attention to that patch of land. The bushes have been trimmed out, leaves collected, weeds pulled and wouldn’t you know... benches utterly rearranged? replaced? reset?
I couldn’t tell you which one was which or where that one is. It’s just no longer there. There’s no green, metal reminder facing north, half shaded and chilly anymore.
I walk there now with our daughter. Sometime she sleeps, sometimes she coos at the birds, and often people stop us to tell me how beautiful she is. Especially the old people...always the old people.
I’ve walked that circle more times than I can count to my life. I’ve walked that circle most of those times in the last year. I’ve walked to breathe and think, I’ve walked to isolate and stew, I’ve walked alone and with friends. I’ve walked to sweat and shrink. Nugget and I just finished a Saturday stroll come to mention it and I’ve lost all the baby weight and then some.
I feel great. Renewed. I feel lighter and less heavy, like a great many weights have been lifted.

Insert cliche “dropped dead weight of 180 lb boyfriend” line here.

​
Come on, 2019.
I am ready for ya.

I’ve been having a hard time on the inside lately.
All the different split up parts of me can’t agree.
Or maybe it has nothing to do with agreement, but if feels like everybody’s trying to talk it once and I don’t know which voice to listen to.
My life feels like one big sequence of conflicts.
Here's a conflict: I’m sick and tired of seeing FOB. I see him four or five times a week, text him every day, first thing in the morning and last thing at night. He feels like the only person I can really share all of Nugget with. You know, cuz he's the other half of her. He is also the last person I want to share anything with. It’s been about a year since he and I were dating and in love. Facebook likes to remind me of memories I’d rather forget, but can’t avoid. It’s a really weird feeling being so utterly heartbroken over the memory of an expectation. He never was what I imagined him to be and we never were exactly what I thought we were but yet sometime how feels like the whole world is wrong. I need space and time, but have to be around him.
Here's a conflict: His family is in town. All of them. His sisters, niece, nephew, Mother. I’ve been a really really good sport about exposing Nugget to this family. Encouraging it actually. They're very nice people, don't get me wrong. It's just that... I had to sit in his apartment yesterday for the first time since he dumped me. And yes, remember, he dumped me. And I haven’t sat in the apartment since the last time I was there when all I could do was sob and wail and question. When I was shattered and forced out. Not that long ago... when I was so pregnant and alone. I can't be in those rooms anymore. I don't know how not to be for Nugget's sake.
So to be sitting there with my four-month-old baby with the enemy and all of his support system... it hurt. I felt like I was being tested not just emotionally, but literally being tested. Every diaper I changed his sister and Mother watched like a hawk.  Or at least I felt like they did... My fingers fumbled. I felt like I was cracking under weight of judgement and eyes.
These are just the feelings I have with others. They don’t even begin to touch the feelings I have myself about myself....about who I am now or who I am as a Mother... or who I was but I am now. There are so many voices shooting off inside me from different parts of me that I’d love to get control of.
Maiden to Mother to Crone. Alone.
Here's a conflict: maybe I need to pump up the Prozac dosage? Maybe I need more pill to feel more me? Maybe that would just be bottling everything up further? Can breastfeeding take more pill? Can Dotty? Will I ever create again on these drugs?
Here's a conflict: My Mother hates him. Can't stand him. Can't take what he's done to her daughter and granddaughter so we live in moments of utter secrecy and silence in regard to him. The air fills with tension. I censor what I say or what has happened. I am careful to emote. I think of her feelings before my own. I tip toe where I sleep.
Here's a conflict: still haven't spoken to my sister. Still abiding by her desire and proclamation to leave her and her family the fuck alone. Still don't feel guilty about it. Still totally happy with the decision--and when I talk about it with other people, they try to convince me otherwise.

Maybe that's the problem?
Thinking of Nugget's feelings before my own.... Nugget's and my Mom's and FOB's and who ever else I'm in the room with. All go before mine. As a courtesy, as a recovering Catholic, as a human. I've always jumbled up my feelings, my future, my worth, my goals, my heart, my brain... with whomever I'm entangled with--lover or friend. And here I've gone and made another human I'm so connected with for eternity... without backing up the structure of myself completely that I feel lost as her leader and protector.

Here's a conflict: Feeling lost while not going anywhere.

I shared a post to the facebooks the other day that went a little something like this:
”Got the guilts.
Haven’t been walking my miles like I had been.
Haven’t been doin my morning preggo yoga.
Been enjoying the sugar and the bread.
Haven’t gotten to the post office, the store, the consignment place, or the art shows.
Flaked on more plans than I’ve kept.
All I wanna do is sleep and vegetate and bathe and feel time pass so I can hang out with this tiny dictator, new bff, ball of leaking smoosh, and have this new mom job already.
Ambitious and restless meets ever expanding burning flesh body of winded catharsis means total body disconnect.
⛈⛈⛈⛈
Thanks for being my friends still, friends.”

The overwhelming response was that of comfort in the shape of well wishes and “don’t be concerned’s” and alla that is just about being third trimester pregnant. A lot of “listen to your body” and such.
Good advice, love my friends, and yes.

....but.... but... how do I do that?

Except mixed signals. That’s the problem.
The Body is all:

• I AM HUNGRY! I ACHE! FEED ME! STOP MOVING! STAY HOME! LAY DOWN! BACK PAIN <yowch> BELLY KICKS <thwap thwap> FARTGASFART!
  

My Mind is all:

• YOU SHOULD BE PAINTING, WALKING, EATING HEALTHIER, SLEEPING LESS, BREATHING DEEPER, HAVING SEX, REACHING OUT, GOING PLACES, DOING THINGS, TIMES INFINITY!

My Heart is all:

• I love. I hate. We love. We hate. Let’s love. Let’s hate. But looooove.

My Hormones are all:

• RAGE! RAAAAAAAGE! RAAAAAGE AGAINST THE DYING AND THE LIVING AND THE BRIGHTNESS OF ALL THE MUTHAFUCKING LIGHT IN THE UNIVERSE!?!?

The Pills be like:

• ”Yo, Mama, chiiiiiiill....”

...so it feels like one big organ-ized argument happening inside me all the time.
Anxiousness met with sedation,
heartburn met with spicy pickle cravings,
backaches met with desire to hike,
and nine weeks left to be amazed, befuddled, humbled, and confused. By the time I figure out which part of me I should listen to and when, Nugget is gonna be out and about, serving up cuteness and diapers the likes of which shall bring chaos to my household. I'll be battling hormone drop, baby blues, and bloody diapers of my own.
As for the past week and I'm sure the coming weeks... I don't wanna leave my house, I don't wanna go anywhere, I don't wanna do much, and I don't wanna see anyone. Other preggo mamas tell me (and sourced me) that's a sign of nesting.

But with this internal cocktail of hormones and prozac, I have no idea how to find the root of anything happening inside me anymore.
I have a few theories though... mystical maybe's that might explain the why's.
Why don't I want to go for walks in the chilly sunshine?
(Maybe it's because I'm so over thinking about my life and my failed relationship that I literally can't take anymore so my bodily instinct of emotional self-preservation is taking over?)
But what about a short stroll with friends?
(Maybe because the Nugget Cave feels like a goddamn cannonball in my upper pussy area and every step I take is met by furious gravity?)
Why don't you want people over to comfort and celebrate and socialize?
(Maybe because the flu epidemic is insane and I can only apply hand sanitizer so many times before my flesh falls off)
What about yoga and practicing some of that hypnobirthing meditation?
(It makes me sleepy... and if I sleep in the day I can't sleep at night... and if I can't sleep at night all I do is toss and turn and get up to pee and binge watch Planet Earth II and Gilmore Girls)

I want this blog to thrive, this website to flourish, my mind and body to agree, my soul to be chill, my heart to heal--all these efforts PLUS growing a belly monster means...

I wouldn't say I've been reluctant...
Nor would I say I've been anti....

Let's just say I've been contently selfish with the course of my existence for all/many of my years. I've led a life full of choice and freedom.
I've worked the jobs I've wanted to in locations I've chosen at times that have suited me.
I've dated whom I've liked and wanted regardless of habit, reputation, influence, or outcome.
I've baked casual, day long meals and desserts from the whim of fleeting taste.
I've laundered at my convenience, showered at my choice, and napped at leisure.
I've hopped in my car, tossed my city in the rear view mirror, and fled town for nights of camping and booze.

It began to dawn on me last night as I climbed into bed at 9pm, but didn't really hit me in the face until I took a long, hot shower at 9am.... in just a few short months, all of my ''when I want to's'' are going to morph into ''when I can's'' and this life of mine that has always revolved around MEEEE is soon to revolve around a Nugget.
There's a'change a'comin'.
I ask myself if I'm ready for it. How can I prepare? How can I learn about the balance needed to continue to honor myself and my needs (while not feeling like a guilty, shitty, selfish mother) and put my Kiddo first?

I don't have an answer. I'm still preggo with 9 weeks and one day (allegedly) to go--I'm living in a land of conjecture, fear, and hope. It's a constant mash up of all three pieces of crazy possibility pie.
If fifteen years of Burning Man has taught me anything, it's that self-care is important and nobody else is gonna do it for you. Your ass is gonna dehydrate and bake if you don't drink water and put on sunscreen--and your ass will be miserable. And made fun of.
A few years ago I had the pleasure of nannying my youngest nephew. When I began he was a fresh little three month old bundle of little boy love and I got to watch my brother become a Dad instantly and over time. I think the three of us were on a walk and though I can't recall the root cause of the topic, we sort of splashed over into the realm of self-care as a parent.... although, in a very brotherly way.

He told me in his infinite brotherly honest wisdom,
"Look Mal, if I'm holding Wyatt (the bebe) and he's fast asleep and it's taken hours to get him there... but I, Dad, have to take the meanest shit of my entire life... I'm not gonna sit there and hold it for him. I do him no favors holding my shit in, all I do is hurt myself and therefore not be the best Dad I can be. So I'll wake him up, jostle the little fellow, trample to the toilet, and take that massive shit for myself. Gotta put me first. Poops and all."

I hope when my time comes... and I've got Nugget nestled deep in my arms of sleep... I find the courage to take the shit I need, the shower I should, the ten minutes I have, and the offered help of those around me. It's been a pattern of mine to gift over lengths of my personality to the lucky fellow I'm dating and put myself second out of sacrifice and overly generous love. This relationship I've got cooking in my belly is like nothing I've ever been privileged to before....

I hope I can shit.
For me and for Nugget.

People are striving for prolonged happiness. We're hoping for joy and hilarity and peace. We relish strength and wisdom and progress. Who can blame us? When it's good, it's good and feeling good feels great!
We live to linger in those positive moments and we exhaust ourselves chasing them... holding onto them... remembering them... recreating them.
But that's just the half of us.  Literally. The positive.
Why do we treat the negative like crap? Why do we pretend it doesn't exist? Why is it so hard to honor sadness and sorrow? Why are we so uncomfortable being uncomfortable?
Is it in how we were raised? Is it a societal thing? A cultural thing?
That's a shit ton of questions with no answers. No rule of thumb. No general basis.

I guess all I can do is reflect on my own emotional vocabulary and accountability. Somewhere in between 12 years of Catholic school, being a woman, a sister, a sibling, puberty, and sort of a millennial,  being emotional became a weakness. I have apologized for crying most of my life. Actually, I've fought back more tears than I've shed for sheer protest against crying for whatever reason. I grew up only crying in my sleep from dreams that were sad or shocking with no control over the waterworks or my subconscious.
(It's all fun and dream tears until you're in the bed next to someone you may or may not have had sex with and you start sobbing in your sleep only to freak your bedmate the fuck out--true story)
Do any of ya'll have a 'cry movie?'
Yeah, a cry movie.
Like, one you watch periodically to induce crying because it's an unnatural thing to do without prompt?
Well, I did/do.
I don't know how many times over the course of my existence I purposefully set aside 36-48 hours to watch What Dream May Come (yes, that one with Robin Williams that's kinda like Dante's Inferno and he crossed through hell and ethereal realms because he loves his Annie so goddamn much and I want someone to love me that goddamn much). I spend that movie violently holding back tears and eventually sobbing so hard that my eyes swell up like irritated bee stings and I have to chill them with iced spoons for hours later. Hence the 36-48 hours of solo time.
Highly. Highly recommend that movie for cry movie. Oh, or An Affair to Remember.
Another good one.

All the same...
I think it all boils down to how the ''I can do it myself'' "I need no help" "I'm find and unaffected" mentality has overshadowed my ability to ask for help when needed and I guess I thought that's how good character was formed. Sadness became a form of weakness, emotional vulnerability became something to avoid, and strong skin was priced much higher than thin.

This pregnancy.
Man Oh MAN, this pregnancy... This forced growth--emotional and physical--has taught me that being emotional is not weakness. I've cried so hard this pregnancy, I discovered new sounds I could make wailing into a pillow... or my steering wheel. I learned my eyes don't have to swell if I just don't block the damn exit and let the tears out. I have grown from navigating the pain of being dumped and fallen out of love with... I have learned that I don't break... I have grown in wisdom and humor. I am more well-rounded. I am more stable. I have learned more coping skills, sharpened my tools of processing, and reacquired my big girl panties. I can cry gracefully. I can also cry like a snot wielding mad woman. I can be angry and so filled with rage that my hands turn to pale, white, bloodless fists.
Allowing myself to feel that... giving myself permission to be negative, to be blue, to be red, to be whatever "negative" emotion I am feeling has, in turn, brought me right back around to actually being happy. Letting those feelings fly for however long they need to has not let me down. Expressing emotion is a strength, not a weakness.
Not here.
Not anymore.
Hello, 2018, you saucy,  well-rounded, wild thing, you.

It's nearly that time of year where the raised Catholic guilt is at it's holiest and strongest. That time of year where you're supposed to think about babies, and families, and forgiveness, and the ''spirit of the season'' and whatnot. That time of year where you're supposed to reach out to the members of  your estranged family and invite them to your table for warmth and nourishment because the soul will be fed through joy and morals.

Allegedly.

I woke up this morning with that nonsense on my mind. Family... eh... I can forgive. We'll all come around.

It's the FOB that I'm rather having a difficult time ''being friends'' with. It's he that I'm having a hard time adjusting to the concept of co-parenting and forever-ness. I mean, when someone gives up on loving you five months into your pregnancy, it's a hard pill to swallow, regurgitate, and then call something else.
I saw this post today on facebook... someone I don't consider remarkably insightful shared it, but it struck a cord. It read:

How deeply I loved him.
How exposed and vulnerable I became.
How he was told all my secrets.
How forever-ness he felt.

And how much all that feels like it was held against me.

I'm not going to invite FOB to my holiday table. I'm not going to spoil him with love or attention or gratitude. I'm simply giving him the gift of coexistence, of letting go, and the first layer of forgiveness (not to be confused with forget-ness because nothing nothing can make me forget his transgressions).
Just one layer. A thin one. Moderately transparent and not very warm.
A single layer nonetheless.

Having put all my eggs in one life and love basket has bit me in the ass and left me unemployed, incredibly poor, single, pregnant, and living with my mother. I wish I could say that I wouldn't have it any other way, but... I'd... I'd certainly have it any other way. Don't get me wrong, I'm sickeningly grateful for the relatively gentle fallout I've experienced from my life implosion. I just... still wish it hadn't quite imploded.
Having said that... I'm trying to carry on through this pregnancy with a sense of normalcy and one of those normal things that normal pregnant women do it have a baby shower... baby sprinkle... baby tinkle... or blessingway ritual.
As someone struggling with social anxiety and depression, this is a fucking nightmare.
As someone who really needs baby clothes and bottles cuz she can't afford life on her own right now, this is a fucking nightmare.

The struggle?
I know a ton of amazing women--women who've influenced my life in unforgettable ways, in fleeting moments of impact, and in long lasting durable relationships. I know women who've invited me to their baby showers who think of me in the same way. I know women who I just think are cool and would like to get to know better. I know women I need in this Nugget's life. I know women who I don't know who I just feel like I should invite because they're friends or family with my ex and part of his life.  Do I invite them all? Will they think I just need stuff? Will they show up? What do I do with them when they get here? What if my house isn't big enough? What if they feel obligated or awkward or pressured to attend?

I don't know how to focus on myself with all these other people walking around on the planet at the same time.
I know this in my pregnancy.
I know this is my Nugget.
I know this is a temporary step in a long life journey.

I just kinda wish I could sleep through it.

I've got two amazing girlfriends who are gonna plan this thing for me. They've volunteered and I've relinquished and it's happening. No silly parties, crock pots only, vicarious mimosa drinking, brunch thingie on a Saturday in February.  There's a date set so now I can count down the clock and wind myself up with anxiety as it approaches.
"Motherhood is hard, babies are expensive, you love these women, let them help" keeps repeating.

"Motherhood is hard, babies are expensive, you love these women, let them help"
"Motherhood is hard, babies are expensive, you love these women, let them help"
"Motherhood is hard, babies are expensive, you love these women, let them help"
"Motherhood is hard, babies are expensive, you love these women, let them help"
"Motherhood is hard, babies are expensive, you love these women, let them help"