Suddenly, I’m incredibly superstitious and old fashioned. I don’t generally think of myself as old-fashioned, preferring to think that I’m open-minded! and progressive! and outrageous! but apparently those things don’t apply to babies. Or wanting to wear my hair covered (I wish I had a reason) and considering exposed ankles a crime (folks, give me a week and I’ll be there for sure). But babes, oh my. Living with me is like living in the 1800s.
No baby clothes. No baby furniture. No painting, decorating or dreaming. That’s pretty much the bottom line, isn’t it? No dreaming. The idea of preparing for something that could never happen, or worse, be snatched away makes my heart chill. I don’t want to tell anyone til we’re well in. I don’t want to know the gender. I don’t want gifts in my home. No mom, you can’t make a quilt. I’m nervous about even saying anything with the word baby near it.
I also can’t believe I’m writing here, except that I would be crazy without a place to speak. So, in order to make myself feel less awkward about insisting we clear out underneath the bed and then stop. cleaning. there., gussying up the family and children chi areas in the house, and crafting little fertility ladies out of clay, I googled pregnancy superstitions. Oh friends, don’t do that…
Let’s just say I won’t be sharing the photo of D wearing our fertility mask. Yet.
I wish I could be giddy with baby shoe buying excitement but it won’t be real until a baby is here. Surprise, surprise. Does anyone have my smelling salts and fainting couch before I get all Victorian on you?