Eight Months Pregnant & Ready to Push

Eight Months Pregnant & Ready to Push

Writing my novel over the past eight months has almost run parallel with pregnancy: it’s been full of joy, it’s been full of pain; at times inspiring, at other times overwhelming. On many days I have woken up exhilarated about its creation, then — a mere 16 hours later — stumbled into bed exhausted and overwhelmed.

I cannot say that because of it my feet have swelled up like sausages; my hair taken on a lustrous sheen; my face that certain “glow” everyone claims expectant mothers to have even if, at the moment, they’re painted puke green with nausea. But what I can say is that as this novel has been getting formed, I have lost sleep, awakened my husband in the dead of night with cravings, questions, and requests all under the guise of research such as: “Honey, can I see your arm a second? Can it bend back this way? Oh, it can’t? And why can’t it? Lemme just try. No? Not even for a second?”

And naming a novel! My goodness! Don’t even get me started! I have searched high and low, wide and long. I have perused billboards and books, menus and street signs, people and places for names to attach to this ever-expanding sweet child O’ mine. I want a name that isn’t already taken; isn’t too popular in mainstream society, but that doesn’t make it difficult for others to spell. I want something unique; that stands out, but not too unique or standy-outy. Something that draws attention but doesn’t scream from 10 bookstores away: “My mommy was either medicated or shoulda been when she dubbed me (insert atrocious title here).”

For the past eight months I have also been beyond excited to usher my creation into the writing world, and yet I am also terrified that I will be a “bad mother” to it; that someone else should have conceived this proverbial child because they would do a far better job of raising it than I.

But then, I love this novel. I really, really do. After eight months of sleepless nights and caffeine filled days, I couldn’t give this child up even if I wanted to. This novel was formed and fed through my own body and brain, and I know I might be a tad biased to say this — every young mother usually is and is looked down upon if she’s not — but I really think it’s pretty darn cute. It has a certain way about it that just feels so warm and cuddly. Sometimes I just want to sit here, wrap my arms around my novel (aka laptop) as best as I can and coo and gurgle at it. Sometimes I even want to run my finger down over its still unseen shape and say, “Who’s Mommy’s little sugar booger? Yes! Yes, you’s is!” and throw in a “doobie doobie do” for good measure.

Then I have weeks like this one when I have been so uncomfortable, so stretched to the point of popping, and I become so ready to really see this novel and hold it and not just watch the ripple of its elbow or behind as it sticks up through my Microsoft Works world that I become all, “If you don’t come out here right now, kid, I’m gonna come in, and when I do — let me just tell ya — it’s not gonna be pretty!”

But what kind of terrible mother would I be if I didn’t let nature take its course? If I doused my novel in castor oil. Took it on long walks. Went off-roading in our Jeep in hopes that the bumpy ride would shoot it out quicker than a wink.

What if my novel needed an extra month to develop a facet of its personality it would be completely dull without? What if it needed more meat on its bones? Another limb to sprout out that allowed it to walk where no book has walked before? What if that castor oil myth really did do the trick, and my novel came into the world dwarfed because of my own impatience?

So this here’s what I’m gonna do. I am going to stop doing all of these authors’ tales to speed the birthing process along, and I am just going to sit back, put my feet up, hold this little bundle of joy close to my heart (okay, on my lap) and every few sentences say, “Who’s Mommy’s little sugar booger? Yes! Yes, you’s is! Doobie doobie do.”

And then, to top it all off, I might just waddle into our kitchen and eat myself some pickles and ice-cream.

(The pickles and ice-cream cupcake image can be found here.)