2008 February 21 — slackermama . com

I think, no, I am convinced that no one will show up to my baby shower this Saturday. Do I have a valid reason to believe this? Not really. I do this every time I have something planned, particularly if it’s something I’m really looking forward to. Which is, yeah, just about everything I’ve ever had planned. And you saw my post about disappointment right? That’s what happens when something I’m looking forward to goes bad. I don’t like feeling that way so I’m pretty much always paranoid getting disappointed. Still with me here?

Even though this baby shower isn’t my baby (I didn’t lovingly order the invitations, send them out or open my house), it still directly involves me. And whenever I throw a party, I worry that I will be left holding the bag. This time, I have no idea who (if anyone) has RSVP’d. And in my history, an RSVP doesn’t necessarily mean that person will be there. You gotta wait for the night-before-phone-call or the 1-hour-before-phone-call to know for sure. But what difference does that make? Because I’m not in control of that. So therefore I’m convinced I will show up on Saturday afternoon, my hopes all up and everything, and it will be me and the poor hostess by our own selves. Maybe (just maybe) one other person will show up and immediately wish she hadn’t when she sees how pathetic the whole thing is.

I’d like to think that worrying about it will remove the potential power of this disappointment, as the old saying goes, “What you worry about it is never what will happen.” Or something like that. All I know is that’s what my mom used to say all the time when I was a kid and went into one of my worry spirals. But I have specific instances in the recent past that I can point to where indeed, the one thing I really worried about actually happened. Losing Jackson. Yes, I worried about stillbirth specifically during that pregnancy. And it happened.

It’s goofy, I know, to worry about this. But I can’t help but think that people will be annoyed to be invited to a shower for a third/fourth baby, will think I’m grubbing for gifts, think they just plain have something better to do… Gah. So yeah. There you have it. A glimpse in at the paranoid mess that is me. Aren’t I fabulous? (See, I know you’re all thinking right this minute, “Man, is she ever pathetic. If I were invited, I DEFINITELY wouldn’t show up.” And would I blame you? Nope. Not one bit.)

Get the word out:

I wake up this morning and see that it is Thursday. Thursdays have become Red Letter Days in the Porter Household lately. Because this wee sprite in my belly (who is having a great time at the moment trying to punch my belly button from the inside) will be birthed upon a Thursday. So each Thursday I feel a mix of “Yay! Only X amount of weeks until the baby is here! I can’t wait to meet her!” and “YAY! Only X amount of weeks until I’m not a huge fat whale anymore!” and “OMG, Only X amount of weeks, I am SO NOT READY. KILL ME NOW.” Usually the latter is the predominant feeling, especially as we keep ticking Thursdays off the calendar.

Thankfully, the carseat should be arriving today so that is one less item to fret about. But Liam hasn’t been moved to Harry’s room yet and I’m really dreading that whole thing. And if we are going to decorate Evie’s room at all, none of that has been started yet. Shoot, I don’t even have the letters to spell out “Evie” on the wall yet. We all know how important THOSE are. As if this child even sleep in there for the first several months or so. Ahem. So yeah, plainly put, there is a lot of stuff left to do. I haven’t even talked about what all we have to clean/clean out. Do you want to talk about my minivan? Yeah, neither do I. It’s BAD.

In the meantime, I look at my belly which I think has grown considerably but no one else does (bah) and can’t help but think, “This is almost over.” And that’s almost a sad thought, you know? This has been a rough pregnancy, but I can’t say I’m not going to miss certain parts of it. This is the last time. No more babies within my belly after this. And I only have four weeks left to enjoy it (or complain about it).

FOUR WEEKS, ya’ll.

^{And in my pink nightmare jammies, no less.}