I know I’m supposed to be beaming these days. I know I’m supposed to be excited to meet my son. I know I’m supposed to be thrilled that I’ll be bringing my baby home in my arms instead of in my belly in a mere eight weeks.

HOWEVER.

What I’m actually feeling is ABSOLUTE TERROR. Complete, paralyzing fear has taken over every time I think about it. The thing is, the hospital is going to put a fragile new life into my arms, wheel me out the door in a wheelchair, help me into my car, and ten minutes later we’ll be pulling up in front of our house with that same fragile new life, and then we bring him inside. AND THEN WHAT!? Like, literally, what do I do with him once I have him inside the house? Do I take him to the nursery that is, as of yet, 100% NOT ready for his arrival? Do I sit down with him on the couch and pop in a movie? Do I start reading him The Chronicles of Narnia? Do I keep him in his car seat? Put him in his little baby bouncer? Do I explain what we believe politically and why? Explain the death and resurrection of Christ? Teach him how to walk? Give him a pacifier? Do I let the dog sniff him? Do I go into my bedroom and lie down with him? Change his diaper? Start playing our iTunes library so he’ll get acclimated to good music? Do I cook him a celebratory dinner? Pour him a glass of champagne and toast his exit from the womb? NO SERIOUSLY READER, WHAT DO I DO!?

Look at my face in this picture. Does it not just scream “OMGOMGOMGOMGOMG”? Because if not, please believe that that’s pretty much all that’s on my mind recently so I was most definitely thinking it.

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My only saving grace is that my husband is perfectly calm. I don’t know how or why, but he seems alright with the fact that we’re about to have to take care of a kid when we barely know how to take care of ourselves. And if he can be alright, I can be alright.