BUNS IN OVENS
In honor of Mother’s Day, I spent a good part of the afternoon thinking about what it would be like if I were a mom. After all, most of my friends have babies on the brain, in their bellies, or strapped to their husband’s back in some adorable sling, wrapped in a manner more complicated than my DVF dress. It should be noted, I started this Mommy & Me thinking when I woke up around noon, settled onto the sofa for a Gigolos marathon, half of my brother’s 4-day old graduation cake on a platter in my lap, after giving up on trying to find my dog’s Special Occasion Tutu somewhere in my mess of a house. And it was about then the revelation hit me: I am in no way ready, or capable, of being a mom at this point in my life. Here are the things that concerned me while shoveling frosting into my face:
The term “bun in the oven” makes me drool over those Take & Bake Cinnabons that are always on sale at the mall. These are the only buns I want in my oven.
I watch Pregnant in Heels for pointers, not because it’s batshit crazy.
While at a restaurant with my boyfriend’s family a few weeks ago, I was assigned to watch his toddler niece. Within about eleven seconds of being in my care, she’d run faster than I could in my heels and thrown herself on a stranger’s dog (thank GOD the sort of dog that liked being dive-bombed). Willingly taking on the job of keeping another human alive TERRIFIES ME. I’m a perfectionist, and I love that little girl, and letting her down is so scary, I don’t know how a person can function with the level of emotion that comes with having your own kid and making sure they’re safe.
Because what if I turned out like her:
My boyfriend thinks the funniest thing in the world is to take pictures of me when I’m sleeping. He’s not being cute (or creepy); he does it because I look like Jabba the Hut (related, see pic above. I’m not far off while passed out). I’m worried pregnancy weight will make me look like this ALL the time. (The fact that this is even a concern is a sign I’m not ready to be a mother.)
And on that note, unlike my fave sexy, sassy, southern celeb, mommylicious Jessica Simpson, I don’t have anyone paying me $4 million to lose my baby weight. (My version of a diet is getting veggie chili on my cheese fries instead of beef.)
I’m not good with breakables; I’ve gone through more phones and wine glasses than boyfriends. Diamonds don’t break, babies do. And I love Baby Uggs and Gucci diaper bags, but I REALLY love sushi, scotch, wine, and just alcohol in general, really.
I am not a morning person. My boyfriend brings me a latte in bed every morning; you might call this sweet, but he will be the first to tell you it is a defense mechanism. I’m not nice for the first 90-120 minutes of my day, so I don’t know how I would react to someone screaming at me to wake up in the middle of the night because they pooped themselves and need me to clean them up. I didn’t like it when I was in a sorority, and I guarantee I won’t like it now.
There’s no room in the convertible I’m going to buy as soon as I sell one of my scripts. Which might not be until my fertility years are over. So, I guess then it wouldn’t matter. NM.
Because, right now, these are the things that make me excited about being pregnant/having a baby:
Buying designer Citizens of Humanity jeans with built in Spanx, and continuing to wear them for years post-birth.
“It’s cravings, babe!” legitimizing my unreasonable and generally asshole behavior in regard to food: Ordering 2 entrees. Sending my man for Chick Fil A in the middle of the night. Putting butter on everything (including, but not exclusive to: slices of cake, pop tarts, as a dip for potato chips or quesadillas; full list available upon request).
Mommy and Me movie theater screenings, because they leave the lights on and I’m less likely to fall down the stairs. (This is a real concern. Happened twice. 40 DAYS AND 40 NIGHTS, and also half-way through MONSTER on a pee break.)
Rocking a bikini and not stressing if I look fat, because people EXPECT you to have a belly.
Having parties thrown for me that are not for my birthday.
Push presents involving precious stones.
My boyfriend has Baby Fever. And thinks he knows everything about keeping babies alive; or at least, more than I do. Which scares our New Parent Friends when they’re handing me their newborn, and Tony is chanting nervously “Annie, support the neck, support the neck, their heads are really soft, supporttheneckSOFTHEADSsupporttheneck!”
Because breastfeeding is really important, and I’m worried if I did, guacamole would come out of one tit and scotch out of the other.
(This is the only baby I’m prepared for right now.)
I hope this all changes though, because I love babies. But not before doctors figure out how to give birth painlessly and lose all baby weight in two days, and keep your fabulous new mommy ta-ta’s forever. Or, until I’ve grown up enough that all this stuff doesn’t matter. Because my mom is the greatest lady I know, and I’m in awe of my amazing mommy friends. Happy belated MILF day to all you beautiful, badass mamas!
* It should be noted that even though this blog is in honor of Mother’s Day, it came two days late. If I can’t get my shit together on this, how am I supposed to be entrusted with the care of a child?