A mother? Really?

Oh. My. God. I'm going to be a mother.

When I say mother, I mean, like, a mom to a kid - a real one. A kid who needs to be cared for, like all the time. And by cared for, I guess that means making sure it eats, sleeps, shits and is kept out of harms way. But how in the world can I be responsible for a kid when there are days - more often than not - that I forget to eat, sleep or shit myself (sometimes all on the same day)?

My mother's a mother, my aunts are moms, my friends' moms are moms. Me? Not so much. It's like that Sesame Street game, which one of these doesn't belong here, where I'm the stiletto in a group of sport shoes. It just doesn't work!

Like Mr. Oh, you may be thinking, "And... this is just dawning on you now?" The answer: Y-E-S!

It hit me last Friday - out of the blue. I was sitting at my desk, totally engulfed in my latest assignment when all of a sudden a thought shoots through my mind: the critter moving inside me is a REAL, LIVE kid. And in a few short weeks, it's going to make its way out of my body (let's not ponder how that will happen) and it will be MY responsibility to care for it.

Are they out of their freakin' minds?

As the panic rose inside me, my breathing became shallow and if my huge belly wasn't blocking me, I would have thrown my head between my legs to prevent me from fainting. Instead, I practiced my ojai breath and repeated my mantra, "I can do it" over and over.

As determined as I was to believe the repetitive voice in my head, I knew there was no way I was even close to being able to "do it." What did I know? For 9 months I've avoided the reality of my situation, I tossed aside all the baby books given to me, I only half-listened (if that) to the unsolicited advice of other mothers, and I kept telling myself and anyone willing to listen that I'd figure it out in due time.

Well, due time is fast approaching and with less than 3 weeks to go, I don't see when the "figuring out" is going to happen!

Wishing for the comfort and safety of my bed, so life could pass me by, I packed up my belongings and headed home. As I made my way through the streets and trains, I passed a number of babies and kids with their moms (who looked and acted like real moms), which only added more fuel to my fire.

By the time I got home, there was no stopping the tears streaming down my face and I couldn't catch my breath. And, my mind had given up on my positive mantra and was replaced with angst-ridden questions that asked me how in the world I was going to pull this off.

By the time Mr. Oh returned from work, he found me in a puddle of tears and tissues. Cautiously, he asked if everything was okay, which I took as my cue to pepper him with question after question: how exactly were we going to be parents? what exactly did a kid need after it's born? why didn't either of us make the logical connection that pregnancy, in most cases, leads to a baby that has to be cared for by the people who created it? And so on.

Although Mr. Oh attempted to console me in a variety of ways, I was inconsolable. To avoid any further drama, Mr. Oh kept a safe distance from me and left me to deal with the doubting, anxious voices screaming inside my head.