I was making dinner tonight for some macho men as a payment for their furniture-moving assistance. (Thank you Brian and Michael for your brains and brawn). I’ve never really been much of a Martha or Julia in the kitchen and have thought of myself more of the Swedish Chef, throwing equipment around, speaking to myself in foreign, frustrated tongues, and blindly tossing my unmeasured ingredients awkwardly with confidence that it’ll be just good enough.

So, it was no surprise when I found myself hobbling around the kitchen preparing some of my own version of BORK BORK BORK when I realized, “I am even more helpless than usual!” As usual, blame goes to Baby.

Cooking a baby has its joys: the flutter of tappy kicks and life inside me; the thick and lustrous locks of hair; the femininity that grows with every inch of my belly; the ability to wear horizontal stripes; the smiles and pleasant conversations with strangers; the dreams for the future. Yes, all of these things are wonderful and I gladly bask in this glow.

So as I whipped up dinner for the boys, I glanced over at my recipe books in the kitchen and spotted the canon of the kitchen, The Joy of Cooking. I snorted to myself, “Ha! There is no joy right now. The joy of cooking what? … a baby? I’m just a vessel of cliches and myths-come-true!”

These cliches are the reason for my newly discovered discomfort. First and foremost, I really do literally hobble now. After 5:00 p.m., my feet, which now resemble Fred Flintstone’s, become stiff and swollen, beginning with an attractive cankle that branches out to a tree-stump like block with sausagey appendages. Foot model, I am not. Well, I never had a chance anyway, but pregnancy does not look good on my tootsies.

Because this is a personal blog, I am about to get, well, personal. I have never been a pee-er. This is probably because I am not much of a drinker (I know, bad Alison, bad!), but I can’t help it! I’m never thirsty. So imagine my surprise when I feel the urge to pee 82789374913408 times a day. However, not one of these 82789374913408 times are ever satisfying. With a rush of “ohmygoshmoveoutofmywaybecausei’mgoingtoburst!” I run to the nearest ladies room, prepare for Niagara Falls, and instead, experience a flow like a cold pipe that’s frosting from condensation in a dark and lonely basement. Drip. Drop. Drip. All done. A whole lot of bladder build-up for nothing! Literally! Thanks, Baby. Hope you’re comfy and cozy, leaning on my pee sac!

Then there’s the grunting. This is not that dissimilar from the noises the Swedish Chef releases in the kitchen. Getting up from a chair? Grunt. Rolling out of bed? Grunt. Picking up an object off the floor? Grunt. Attempting to put on pants? A grunt for each leg. I am 872 years old. At this rate, I feel more like my fetus’s great, great grandmother than mother. And that doesn’t feel so great. Or grand. This is probably due to all of my back pain and lack of core strength. I am determined to get back into shape after the baby.

I should probably rephrase that sentence as “get back into shape” implies I was actually in shape prior to the baby. That would be a lie. So fine, I plan to get into shape. Although, I suppose I’m currently in shape — a round one — but feeling ancient at 28 is not my idea of being a hot mom.

All in all, I have had a very boring and uneventful pregnancy, which is just how the doctors like them. I’m extremely pleased with that, but I’m also just now finally experiencing the “joy” of cooking a baby, which means I’m right on track and par for the course. And even though I feel like the Swedish Chef in the pregnancy kitchen, I also know that “it’s a good thing” and I’m a Martha after all.

Today was my birthday. I turned 28 — hooray for an even number! As I write this, I feel like it’s the end of a Doogie Howser episode where I reflect on the day’s events and the lesson I learned. It’s actually just like that, except I’m not using DOS on a mammoth 1989 IBM computer to journal (omg Bryan just fell in love with me all over again) and Max Casella (Vinnie) is nowhere in sight. Oh, and I’m not a boy genius. Girl genius, however…

But still, I am having a Doogie moment so I’m just going to run with it.

As a kid (or up until my mid-20s), my birthday was the best day of the year. But then again, what young thing doesn’t like his or her birthday? It’s a time of nothing-can-go-wrong and everybody-loves-me. Today was similar once I remembered it actually was my birthday. The Facebook posts and messages that came in were endless and thoughtful, and calls from friends and family were so appreciated. Bryan took me out to a lovely dinner at my favorite restaurant where I enjoyed my perfect Ruth’s Chris steak and gave me a pair of mother-of-pearl earrings. Really, it was a wonderful day!

But it all felt different. And I realized it’s because I’m about to be a mom and I’m looking forward to a new kind of birthday — my daughter’s birthday. My birth day. While this was my last June 7th as a non-mom, I am excited to celebrate getting a year older with spit-up on my shirt and a diaper to change before blowing out candles. But more importantly, I am excited (and scared!) for the birth day sometime in August when our daughter enters the world. I’m anxious about the when, where, and how of it all and wish I could have a little glimpse of what to expect. But even with the childbirth classes we’re taking, the books I’m reading, and the mom-friends I’m talking to, I have a feeling there’s no way to really know since each experience is so unique. If you know me at all, you know this is killing me softly (controlfreakAHEMcontrolfreak). There is a part of me, though, that is welcoming the surprise of it all.

Two weeks ago, we took a tour of the labor and delivery floor at the hospital. It was nice to be able to have some imagery to go along with the expectations. First, a nurse spoke for about 45 minutes and gave a play-by-play of how it all happens on the big day. Blame the hormones, but I choked up like 897892734987 times. I also apparently wore a look of OMG ARE YOU $%&!*@# KIDDING ME on my face when the nurse detailed some other events of the experience. So yes, excited and scared are definitely appropriate descriptions of my feelings!

After her Vin Scully approach to the sport of labor and delivery, we walked the halls of the actual floor and saw a delivery room like the one in which our daughter will enter. It was a lovely and cozy room with all the necessary equipment, providing a likable-enough vibe where our baby will take her first breaths.

We saw the nursery where the doctor and nurses will take the baby for her first bath and other minor tests. Daddy will get to go in there and watch. He’s already been instructed to soak everything up so he can return with details of what he experienced in there!

I know the birth day will be a whirlwind of emotions, events, and well wishes, and on this personal birthday, I can’t help but think about all the fun that lies ahead. I’m grateful to have had such a lovely day with some of my favorite people, eating my favorite things, and enjoying my favorite activity (shopping!), but I know that the day our daughter is born will be the best birth day ever.

Especially if Doogie Howser does his rounds in my room!

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