It happens

When I first fell pregnant I looked at the 9 month calendar with dread and apprehension, convinced that waiting 9 months to see our baby would be excruciating and I had quite convinced myself that before the end of the third trimester the curiosity and expectation would have burned a hole in my head.
Yet before I could wipe the purity out my eyes I am standing at the end of my first trimester with only six months to go.
I had also suffered an illusion that hubby being who he is, me being as impatient as I am would, by now, have everything organized and planned out.
We have, to say the least, been overwhelmed by the amount of stuff Baby will need and have failed to make a move on anything till now.
The room that we have designated for baby remains little more than a disorganized laundry room with sad curtains and a cupboard full of PC parts. And I have only just found a doctor that suites my strict budgetary requirements

I have thus come to the conclusion that mother nature does not need nine months to grow a baby and it is well within her power to start producing a “just add water” production model for child birth. However being a woman and understanding the fact that human beings are a flawed species she had the foresight to provide us with a 9 month grace period during which we can if not mentally, but habitually prepare ourselves for the greatest responsibility of our lives.
After that it’s up to us.

One day you find yourself flat on your back in a hospital ward with your legs spread like a Russian gymnast and a voice like an African Vuvuzela trying desperately not to poo in the doctor’s hands while at the same time pushing to expel a whole human being from your body’s most unlikely orifice.
You’ll grunt and squeal like a Christmas pig and swear like a liquored up sailor and perhaps for the first time in your life not be compelled to stop your Mascara from running, but before you can completely curse the day you met the pail faced fear stricken man by your side “it happens”.
A tiny wrinkly little body attached to a very big very high pitched voice comes howling into the big bad world.
You’ll smile while doctors and nurses pretend they notice that he looks like you.

Provided daddy is still on his feet and not comatose under the doctors feel he’ll be given the howling bundle to hold and you’ll marvel at how gentle he can be with those paws of his.

For the most part it’s a perfect utopian picture and its one no parent ever forgets (apparently) but you do forget that 3 days later you stomp about the house in a sleep deprived mess, wearing one slipper, an unlatched nursing bra and a chopstick in your hair.
You forget that every day you go and pee in excruciating pain and hope that by some miracle the instruction manual that you are sure got lost in transit, may appear.
After all there must be some comprehensive guide that can tell you what exactly is the limit to the amount of fluid that kid can expel and how long can one go without sleep before one starts to dissolve.
Alas there is none, not even a measly “handle with care” sticker.
583 phone calls to your mom and 3weeks latter you slowly get the hang of it and the details of the first few days fade into insignificance, you’ll simply say “it was hard” and smile at the Lilliputian version of his dad in his crib.
In this instance mother nature’s wisdom is limitless. Somehow she knew you could do it on your own and to make sure that you don’t discourage your kin from walking the path she equipped you with a selectively bad memory.

I have been told that babies are a miracle, but my very close observation of new mommies and old mommies and mommies to be has lead me believe that a mommy’s resilience is by no means just a small part of that miracle.