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The countdown moves from months to weeks, from weeks to days, and the feeling of excitement wavers from blissful joy to sheer terror that soon, very very soon, a new life will spring forth from my body. Holy. Shit.

My body swells to unnatural proportion and I’m not able to bend down to pick things up off the floor anymore without real pain. The dysmorphia is real. I forget until the baby moves or I bump into something I should have been able to squeeze past easily before. It’s surreal.

Things haven’t been easy during this pregnancy. The sad truth is that I’ve been trying to cope with a pretty tricky time with my son right now. He’s entering into a moody three-nager stage and is very sensitive to criticisms like asking him to not accidentally punch me in the stomach or to stop kicking our shared wall with the neighbor for the fifth time in a row. How am I going to explain this new baby to him? (He knows, for the record, but it’s all hypothetical until the squalling infant comes home with us.)

There’s a brooding angry fear in the back of my mind about how this is all going to play out. It rumbles quietly how this is going to be the hardest thing I’m ever going to do, how I’m destined to fuck it up, how I was foolish to want another child, how are we ever going to weather this storm, what the hell was I thinking.

This voice is remarkably familiar, much like my own, only more certain and really kind of an asshole. It ignores my friends and their kind advice. It hates the things I used to love, and only wants the things it can’t have, like sleep and silence. It’s an amalgam of all my worst qualities, pooling it’s strength in the darkness, seeing how frail and weak I’ve become, mocking me.

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