It’s odd taking a shower and not being able to see my toes. Or trying to buckle my belt because I can’t see the hole. I guess it’s just called seven months pregnant, which is what I am now. My bowling ball is starting to look (but not feel) like a Pilates ball. My cheeks are rounder than any cherub’s, and photographs feature me with newfound cleavage. My most common state of being is inertia since my body keeps telling me to slow down. Walking the dog brings on cramps, and tying my shoes is easier for me while lying flat on my back.

Carrying a human life, I feel the bearer of one of life’s few remaining secrets. Strangers smile at me when they notice my winter coat barely covering my bump. A sympathetic smirk suggests that they, too, know what I’m going through. Yet each time I smile back, I tell myself that no one can ever know the extent that a woman goes through to carry a child. When I see pregnant women, I now wonder if the pregnancy came easily to them, if there is an acknowledged father, if they had a miscarriage or suffered worse. I wonder what secrets they are hiding in their tummies. Nothing can be taken for granted.

I like to think that my hormones are pretty much under control but my husband might say otherwise. Aside from a teary, silly dispute on our five-year wedding anniversary, I’ve behaved myself. Lately, I’ll admit, I’ve been anxious about becoming a mother for a second time. I’m convinced that I’ve forgotten all that I learned while raising Mr. Big Eyes. How many times a day do babies have to eat? When do they sleep? How do they fall asleep? What the hell IS swaddling anyway (I never did it since my son was born in balmy weather where even a blanket felt too warm for him)? Will my husband and I ever have another conversation again about topics other than diaper changes and nap schedules? Will my dog develop bladder problems when we forget to take her out?

My doctor has scheduled me for a C-section for a variety of medical reasons. She booked the operating room the other day on the phone as I trembled before her wondering what the birthdate of my baby girl would be. It was like spin the bottle — should she be born on a Wednesday or Friday? Scheduling issues demand it to be a Wednesday — March 4th to be precise. This abstract bowling ball is actually going to introduce herself as a fiery newborn in a matter of weeks. Am I really ready for her?

I finally bought some clothes for her — those adorable Liberty-print shirts I’ve been salivating over in Paris boutiques for the past two and a half years. My next project is to weed through Mr. Big Eyes’ clothes and see how much of his wardrobe can be passed on to her. But I want her to have some of her own loot, too. Can I finally give in to my pink urges?

Mr. Big Eyes has moved upstairs to his Big Boy bed, which basically just means he has now claimed the guest room as his own. The little bambina will move into Luca’s “old” room across from ours. Should I remove the wooden letters spelling out his name on his old door and paste them on his new door? Or simply leave them, and add her name underneath or, next to, his.

I’ve always wanted to be a mother of two. I’m just having a hard time hurrying up and waiting. But I know she’ll be here before I know it. I just hope I live up to her expectations (and that my two-and-a-half-year-old doesn’t murder me out of jealousy).