At my last doctor visit, I was informed that my baby is the size of a cantaloupe and weighs more than most toddlers.  Which means I can literally drop this sucker at any moment, even though I am not due for another week and a half.  To start getting ready, it’s time to pack the hospital bag.

Pack my phone and charger, toothbrush, toothpaste, lotion, deodorant, and hairbrush.

Realize that I need these items on a daily basis.  Remove from bag.

Pack an oversized hoodie, slipper socks, and a pair of XXL jogging pants purchased specifically for post-birth.

Those jogging pants look comfy (and would probably stretch over my cantaloupe stomach.)  Put them on.

And the hoodie.

Pack some snacks in case the hospital food is disgusting.  Granola bars, some crackers, chocolate, a bottle of water.

Worry that food will go bad if left in bag too long.  Eat the granola bars.

Pack reading material for down time: “What to Expect…,” parenting magazines, Us Weekly, Sudoku book, some Oprah recs I never got around to.

Remember that most down time was spent sleeping or trying to shake down nurses for pain meds.  Plus, those books are heavy.

Remove books.  Leave Us Weekly.

Should probably eat the chocolate now, so it doesn’t melt all over the contents of bag.

Add items to relax me during the delivery: aromatherapy candles, soothing music on my iPod, massage oil, lighter.

Husband reminds me that I am having c-section.

Add my insurance cards, ID, and some cash.

Need these for my last doctor appointment (when I’m sure he will tell me my baby is the size of a watermelon, and is big enough to start shaving).  Put back in wallet.

Eat the crackers from bag.

Add an outfit for baby to come home in.

There is a small stain on the front of the sleeper.  Try to find another outfit.

Really like that first outfit, except for stain.

Can only picture my newborn in that outfit.  Remove it from bag so I can wash it.

Will probably have to wash my jogging pants too, since they now have chocolate and crackers on them.

Try to locate my camera for newborn hospital pictures.

Can’t remember the last time I actually used a camera to take pictures.

Also, I hate how I look in pictures.

Will probably want pictures of the baby, though.

Unless she comes out looking like Hume Cronyn from Cocoon.

Still can’t find camera, but did find more chocolate.

Okay, if my water breaks tonight, I will grab my bag that contains the following:

1. Slipper socks

2. Us Weekly

It helps to be prepared.

Considering how much of our youth and adulthood we spend actively trying not  to get pregnant, it’s unsurprising that when the time comes to finally fill our ovens with buns, things don’t always go as planned.  Here is a timeline of common fears involving the fine art of reproduction:

You will get pregnant in high school.

You will get pregnant in high school and not know which of the two boys who work at The Bagel Patch is the father

You will get pregnant in your early 20’s and not know which of the two bartenders at The Leopard Room is the father.

You will never want to get pregnant, until your best friend gets pregnant and makes it look fun.

You will get pregnant and find it is not fun.

You will not want to get pregnant until after you travel to Greenland.

You will never travel to Greenland.

You will not be able to use mind control to manipulate when you get pregnant.

You will be scrutinized and questioned by “loved ones” as to why you are not pregnant yet.

You will be mistaken for pregnant after eating a large stack of pancakes at IHOP.

You will not realize you are pregnant until after Tequila Tuesday.

You will accidentally poop the baby out.

You will have morning sickness that lasts for nine months.

You will gain weight, but people will simply think you’re fat.

You will gain so much weight that your doctor will offer you clipped recipes from “Diet Weekly.”

Your innie will become an outie.

You will give birth before you get a chance to go away on a romantic child-free retreat with your husband.

You will give birth during a romantic child-free retreat, in a log cabin in Pennsylvania, with nothing but a retired midwife and a boiling kettle of water.

You will not be able to recognize the signs of labor, and will tell your husband you have indigestion.

Your water will break and you will merely think you are incontinent.

Your water will break while you are wearing your new cashmere sweater dress.

You will go into labor while on the subway…and still not be able to get a seat.

You will go into labor while teaching, and a 7^th grader will have to run and get the school nurse.

You will give birth on St. Patrick’s Day, and there will be no empty hospital beds.

You will go into labor and the hospital will be fresh out of epidurals, and they will offer you ice shavings instead.

You will be in so much pain, you will promise your nurses monetary awards if they fill your spinal column with the sweet nectar of anesthesia.

Your labor will last longer than all of Peter Jackson’s movies put together.

You will give birth, and the doctor will inform you that there is an extra “surprise” baby in there.

Your baby will look like Benjamin Button.

What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name, would smell as sweet.  Possibly, but if said flower was called “fart monster,” I bet fewer people would actually try to smell it.  Names are important, which is why my husband and I have devoted 99% of my pregnancy to trying to choose one wisely (and the other 1% to actually learning how to care for a baby).

The Top 10 Categories for Naming Your Baby

1.) Type of Name:  Sports Authority
Sample Names:  Peyton Manning, Jeter, Madden
What this will say about you: Your raging fandom extends to your wee ones.
What your child will be like:  Due to mild asthma and flat feet, the only thing your child will play is the tuba in the marching band.

2.) Type of Name:  Literary Heroes
Sample Names:  Hammett, Huckleberry, Lolita, Holden
What this will say about you: You are a well-read intellectual
What your child will be like: Super-cute, but dumb as a bag of pop rocks.

3.) Type of Name:  Old-fashioned
Sample Names:  Esther, Beverly, Dorothy, Maude, Irving, Ira
What this will say about you: You had an unusually close relationship with your great-grandparents
What your child will be like: Male or female, they will grow up to look like Bea Arthur

 4.) Type of Name: Celebrity Trends
Sample Names:  Khloe, Angelina, Scarlett, Taylor, Katy, Ashton
What this will say about you: You have your finger on the pulse of pop culture and current events.
What your child will be like:  Will someday get paid in singles.

5.) Type of Name:  Gender Benders
Sample Names: Jeff, Trevor, Gregory (for girls); Kimberly, Diana, Sue (for boys)
What this will say about you: You refuse to conform to societal norms
What your child will be like:  British.

6.) Type of Name:  Kreative Spellor
Sample Names: Jenyphr, Derryk, Peeta, Jazmene
What this will say about you: You like to think outside the box. Or are possibly dyslexic.
What your child will be like: Constantly pissed off that, at amusement parks, they will never find a keychain with their exact name on it.

7.) Type of Name: Presidential
Sample Names:  Monroe, Jefferson, Van Buren, Taft
What this will say about you: You have a strong sense of patriotism and history.  Also, you just read a restaurant placemat that lists all the presidents.
What your child will be like: A budding anarchist.

8.) Type of Name:  Random Stuff Around the Room
Sample Names: Apple, Salami, Twig, Blender, Luger
What this will say about you: You clearly do not care if your child is mistaken for a household appliance
What your child will be like: Frequently mistaken for a household appliance

9.) Type of Name: Music Lover
Sample Names: Ringo, Beck, Morrissey, Cher
What this will say about you:  You want everyone to know what good taste in music you have.
What your child will be like:  The best karaoke star at their prep school.

10.) Type of Name:  World Traveler
Sample Names: Seville, Cairo, Orlando, Geneva, Newark
What this will say about you: You want your child to have a meaningful connection to the place of their conception.
What your child will be like: Really, really grossed out by their name.

Creating a baby registry is like getting to commit legal armed robbery: you point a gun at an object, and eventually someone gives it to you.  Here are my Top 10 tips on how to use your registry for your own amusement.

1.)   Register for big-ticket items no one will ever purchase

If you register for a minivan, that $400 stroller will seem like a bargain.

2.)   Turn your registry into a grocery list

The whole point of a registry is to list things you want or need, and have other people buy them for you.  So if they’re already getting you diapers and detergent, why not throw in light bulbs, toilet paper, and eggs?

3.)   Register for items that will cause your family embarrassment to purchase

If possible, choose items/brands that must be purchased in-store, so your friends and family have to directly ask sales clerks for said items.  It will be nothing short of pure magic having to open the box of butt cream or panty liners your Aunt Margaret was forced to buy, since there was nothing else left on your registry.  And make sure you tell her you’re thinking of her every time you use it.

4.)   Register for as many items as possible that have the word “nipple” in it.

When you open the present at your shower, make sure to say the name of the item multiple times: “Grandma Becky got me the nipple paste I asked for!  Thank you, Grandma, for the nipple paste.  I can’t wait to use my new nipple paste.”

5.)   Use your registry to confuse people as to your baby’s gender

“Wait, she wants a onesie that says “Daddy’s Princess” and one that says “Mommy’s Fancy Man?”  Blue and pink swaddles?”

They don’t need to know that you plan on returning all of that stuff anyway to purchase more nipple paste.

6.)   Do not register for clothes

90% of your baby’s 1^st year wardrobe will be gifted to you anyway.  And as long as you don’t mind receiving at least five pink velour tracksuits, or dressing your infant son like a turn-of-the-century paperboy, there’s no need to waste a potential gift on a duckie romper.

7.)   Make sure there are lots of super-cheap items on your registry for your super-cheap friends to get for you.

And you knew that when you gave your friend a serving spoon as a wedding gift, she would someday pay it forward by gifting you a single pacifier.  Serves you right, you tightwad.

8.)   Don’t forget about a bouncer/ swing/ rocker/ vibrating chair/ playmat

Pick out the most expensive one in the store.  Your baby will probably hate it, but may end up liking the box.

9.)   Register for as many mattress pads, burp cloths, changing pad covers, and plastic wraps as you think people will shell out for. 

Babies spew fluid from every orifice.  Their fluids are gross, and will make your home seem like a dog park unless you take proper precautions.  Remember when your grandmother kept her couch wrapped under layers of plastic?  It wasn’t a fashion statement; she was trying to keep children from literally shitting all over her furniture.  You’d be wise to follow in her footsteps.

10.) See if you can snooker someone into gifting you a Netflix subscription

You will spend a lot of the wee hours feeding, rocking, or passing out while holding your baby.  And nothing says “quality bonding time with newborn” like a Game of Thrones marathon.

Husband: Hi, Hon. Happy Valentine’s Day.  I made dinner.

Me: Aw, that’s so sweet.  I’m totally craving burritos.

Husband: I made steak.

Me: Steak burritos?

Husband: No, just steak.

Me: (pause) That sounds great too.

Husband: (taking off my coat) You look nice.  I love your…oversized…raggy sweatshirt…thing.

Me: Thanks.

Husband: I didn’t know they still made R.E.O. Speedwagon gear.

Me: It’s the only thing that fits.

Husband: You look great in it.  Glowing.

Me: How soon ‘til dinner?

Husband: Almost done.  Um, I think a piece of your sleeve just fell off.

Me: Whoops.

Husband: Okay, dinner is served.

Me: No wine?

Husband: You can’t drink, so what’s the point?

Me: I can look at it.  I can smell it.

Husband: It seemed silly to pay $15 for something you can’t consume.

Me: $15?  Who am I, the Queen of England? (taking a bite of steak)  It seems a bit well-done.

Husband: I know, but you can’t have undercooked meat.

Me: But your steak is rare.

Husband: That’s because I like my steak delicious.

Me: Trade ‘em up, buster.

Husband: But the baby-

Me: Baby, schmaby.  Mama wants some bloody cow.  (eats husband’s steak).  Delicious, Honey.

Husband: So, for dessert, I figured we’d split a piece of pie a la mode.

Me: (blank stare)

Husband: And by “split,” I mean, “each get our own piece, with an extra one to pick off of.”

Me: Hooray, pie!

Husband: So…the baby’s still asleep.  You know what that means…

Me: Foot rub?

Husband: Um, yessss.  The one part of you I was really looking forward to touching was your foot.   Fine.  Okay.  (starts rubbing feet)  You know you have a hole in your sock, right?

Me: I haven’t seen my feet in about three months.  I could have a hole in my actual foot and have no idea.

Husband: Seriously, though.  The entire bottom of your sock has dissolved.  How can you not feel this?

Me: My boots cut off the circulation in my feet.

Husband:  Perhaps we should put the $15 wine money toward new boots.

Me: Or you could rub my feet more.

Husband: (ignoring request) Want to watch a movie?

Me: Nah, too tired.  Something shorter, like one of the tv shows we DVR’ed six months ago and never watched?

Husband: I have something better in mind.  (pulls out phone)

(Watch video of our daughter spinning in a circle while singing the “Map” song from Dora the Explorer)

Me: Best Valentine’s Day ever.

No matter how much we tried to keep the baby (both existing and impending) from taking over our home, the stuff slowly crept in.  All attempts at containment failed, and every surface of our apartment was covered in pacifiers, milk rings, and petrified Cheerios.  After reaching into my drawer and accidentally using diaper cream as sunscreen, I realized something had to give: we needed to create a baby nursery.  A real one, not just a sock drawer decorated with Elmo stickers.

Function:  A new baby is moving in permanently.  The hard part is letting go of that extra room, which has been the guest room/ library/ studio/ farting space for so long.  Our bookshelves slowly got taken over: One Hundred Years of Solitude, Of Mice and Men, and The Sun Also Rises were replaced by 10 Minutes til Bedtime, If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, and Goodnight, Moon.  It was time to officially move our books out.  And while the baby could ensure the legacy of the farting space, my art supplies would all warrant a call to Poison Control if swallowed.  Out, out, out.  And perhaps we should buy a crib.

Décor: We have a daughter, with another baby girl on the way.  It seems easy enough to trick out the nursery in enough princess and unicorn decals to make our daughters puke glitter.  Despite this fact, we opted for a more neutral look, mainly because we are lazy, and didn’t want to buy a lot of Disney crap.  We decided that the room should be yellow (because the room was already yellow).  We decided there should be blinds on the windows (because there were already blinds on the windows).  And we decided to keep the beige carpeting, partly because it was already there, and partly because beige can hide a majority of baby body fluid stains.

Theme: Friends keep asking what our nursery “theme” is, as if a nursery is a miniature bar mitzvah.  My husband and I brainstormed and rejected several unsuitable themes.  He nixed my “Dead Presidents” theme (I realllllly wanted to include Abe Lincoln Logs, a Martin Van Bureau, and James Polk-a dots).  I nixed his idea to cover the walls with comic book characters.  And we both agreed that “Spiders of the Australian Outback” would only lead to night terrors.  So we hung up a “Winnie the Pooh” picture, making our nursery theme “Pictures We Already Owned.”

Safety:  There are the obvious safety measures, like bolting down furniture so our kid won’t tip it over when she tries to climb it (and burglars can’t make off with our fancy IKEA bookcases).  We put bars on windows and tied up blind cords so the baby wouldn’t be tempted to escape by seeing the outside world.  We plugged up our outlets with plastic covers that we haven’t been able to remove for almost two years.  For even more security, we installed a “BabyCam” on the wall to monitor the baby while she sleeps.  This is both a lot less creepy, and a whole lot more boring than it sounds.  While the BabyCam has never shown us anything as dramatic as the baby trying to “Great Escape” out of the crib, it has occasionally helped us stop her before she finger-painted with her own feces.

Storage: Babies have a lot of stuff.  The secret is to find dual uses for the storage contraptions.  It’s not just a dresser; it’s a changing table.  It’s not just a toy bin; it’s a bench you can nap on while watching your baby play with a spoon for 45 minutes.  It’s not just a Diaper Genie; it’s the first place you look when your car keys go missing.

And of course, the most important rule of creating a nursery: no clowns.

Ever since the day I whizzed on a stick and sealed my fate, I have been concerned with one thing: what gender will my baby be?  I am the type to read the endings of books (magazines, pamphlets, sometimes even paragraphs) first, because the anticipation drives me insane.  I need to know how things will go down, immediately.

People always ask if we have a gender preference.  They expect us to say “no, as long as it’s healthy.”  Both my husband and I think “no, as long as it’s a healthy girl.”  We already have a daughter, so it would be kinda nice to reuse the clothes (at least the ones we didn’t have to cut off her body due to explosive poop).  We also liked the idea of giving our daughter a little sister.  But the idea of having a boy is tempting, too.  One of each.  A matching set.  Boys love their mothers.  But whenever I think of raising a boy, I remember when my friend brought her twins to our apartment.  Her five-year old boy ran around the place like a Gremlin fed after midnight, literally tearing stuff up, while her daughter sat quietly in the corner and played with a crayon for two hours.  While there’s the novelty of a boy, I’ve never been eaten by a Bengal tiger and yet I still know that I would prefer not to get eaten by a Bengal tiger.

Of course, having a gender preference definitely meant our baby would be the opposite.  I did what any curious mom-to-be would do: I went online and took the Chinese gender predictor test.  I did not like the outcome.  I took it again, randomly changing my age, due date, and the lunar calendar, just to see.  Same outcome.  And since the Internet is never wrong (except when Web MDs said I had meningitis when I really just had a head cold), I guess we were having a boy.

Forget morning sickness or heartburn: true suffering is being kept in gender suspense until the 20-week anatomy scan.  A routine check-up that measures all your baby’s vitals, it was the first legit glimpse I got of my fetus’ naughty bits.  First, we had to sit through countless images of barely-identifiable baby parts, each one looking like the telltale gender clue.

“Ooh, what’s that?”

“That’s your baby’s femur.”

“Ohhhh.  I thought it was…well anyways.  What’s that giant thing between the legs?”

“That is the umbilical cord.”

And we kept staring at the screen, pretending to be interested in the skull circumference, while secretly wondering if he will end up looking like the gelatinous mummy he appeared to be.  The technician switched the screen to measure blood flow, (or to show us how our baby would look if viewed by Predator).

Finally, our technician offhandedly remarked, “And that’s your daughter.”

Our what, now?  All ten Chinese gender predictor tests can’t be wrong.

“Are you sure?”

She got snappy.  “Listen, I know what I’m looking for, and I don’t see it.”  The tech pointed to a random gelatinous blob.  “There.  That hamburger shape shows it’s a girl.”

While I wasn’t thrilled with my daughter’s lady parts being compared to fast food, it was still thrilling to have another piece of the puzzle revealed to us.  High-fives, all around.  My husband and I gave each other credit.

“Good job, hon. It was your X chromosome that made this happen.”

“Well, it was your idea to watch ‘My Little Pony’ while you ovulated.”

And on the ride home, as I grew relieved that our next-born would never pee in my face, play professional football, or be named “Thor,” my mind drifted to training bras, awkward dating talks, and the Kardashians.  Suddenly a boy didn’t seem like a bad option.

People like to hear stories about milestones.

What’s the story?  How did you two meet?  I love that bar.  Well, it’s a good thing they didn’t cut you off.  How did he propose?  He put the ring at the bottom of the breadstick basket at the Olive Garden?  So romantic. Where did you get married?  I know that place; my neighbor’s orthodontist’s son got married there.  I’ve never been, but I hear it’s nice, if you like things that cost money.  How did you find out that you were pregnant?  You barfed during a Dave Matthews concert?  But how did you know it was the pregnancy?

People like to hear stories about milestones.

No one wants to hear your childbirth story.

No one cares how many hours you were in labor, or if you remembered your breathing techniques, or what color your amniotic fluid was.  If you even mention the word “episiotomy,” women’s reproductive organs shrivel up and die.  The only people who will ask about it are other mothers who want to one-up your story with their own traumatic tales, or the mothers who then demur about how they only had to push for ten pain-free minutes.

Now, most of my knowledge about childbirth comes from television.  I know that I need to have my hair and make-up done before entering the hospital in case my doctor looks like an A-list actor.  I know that labor only lasts as long as a Queen song.  I know that my baby will come out squeaky-clean, and approximately the size of a six month old.

One night, I was painfully set straight when I hung out with my friend Lori and her group of new mothers.  The topic inevitably turned to childbirth, and the night became “Survivor: Pregnancy Edition”.  Each tale was more gruesome and incredible than the last, with mothers emerging as triumphant battle-scarred warriors.

“I had to push for three days.  The pain was excruciating,” a mother of a 6-month old shared.

“Um, could you have gotten an epidural?” I asked innocently.  She looked at me as if I had suggested that she should smoke crack during labor.  My friend Lori, who had had an epidural, remained quiet.  When pressed, she insisted that it was administered “against the wishes of her birth plan,” which I know is false, since her birth plan included the phrase “knock me out and wake me when it’s over,” as well as a request for Roy Rogers fried chicken to be fed to her immediately after the cord was cut.

Another woman piped in: “I know someone who had an epidural, and her labor lasted for two weeks.”  This definitely seemed unlikely, but it awed the group into silence, each woman thinking that she would never get an epidural (except for me, since two weeks of pain-free labor sounded better than two days of wishing I was born a man).

As stories emerged involving vacuum suctions, giving birth during a pilates class, pincers, and pots of boiling water, I realized that there was no good way to have a baby.  Considering women have been going through this since the time Eve found herself eating apples for three, I am astounded that technology and science have not found a way to make this less traumatic for us.  No matter what method we use to have this baby extracted from our insides, we all share the common bond of not enjoying childbirth.  At all.  And wanting to relay that story to the college kid sitting next to us on the bus.

So I am hoping that when my time comes, I will push for ten pain-free minutes, my amniotic fluid will be rainbow-colored, and my doctor will be played by George Clooney, circa 1995.