Yesterday I decided to pack my bag for the hospital. I thought hey, this will be fun. I bought a robe and cute slippers at target, along with fancy toiletries (including some lip balm because oh my god, anything you read about what to bring to the hospital makes you think that if you don't have lip balm you might as well just THROW IN THE TOWEL NOW because no way are you getting through labor without it). I was thinking that the BHE and I could pick out a going-home outfit for the baby together. Um, total freakout ensued.
It went something like this:
Me: Oh my god, we have no clothes for the baby.
BHE: Um, we have an entire dresser full of clothes. Also, this pile and this bag. Oh and look, this bag.
Me: But I don't understand what to put him in.
BHE: What's to understand? You put him in clothes.
Me: But what kind of clothes? Pants? Sleeper? Onesie? Smoking jacket? Wait, he has no pants. Our baby has no pants. I DON'T KNOW HOW TO DRESS MY BABY! TERRIBLE MOTHER! SOCIAL SERVICES! AAAAAAA!!!!!
BHE: I really think he'll be OK. You could wrap him up in one of my t-shirts and he'd be fine.
ME: Are you kidding? What if your mother saw that? I have no business having a baby.
BHE: Good grief.
This is how it's been going sometimes at our house. The BHE and I will be happily watching tv, joking around, marvelling at the site of our baby's foot sliding under my ribs, etc. Then out of nowhere I will completely freak out about some aspect of baby care for which I do not have written instructions. Which is... every aspect. Folks, I am a recipe follower. And even then sometimes I fuck up. (Baking borders on traumatic for me, and often ends with me in tears.) So this is another reason I hope my pregnancy doesn't drag on: Less obsessing, more doing. When you're busy feeding, burping, changing, swaddling, cuddling and being exhausted, I imagine you don't have the luxury to stop and freak out that you're doing it wrong. Right?
Don't even get me started on the bathing.