There's nothing worse than going to bed crying, then waking up crying.

Spent most of yesterday contemplating the possibility of pre-partum depression - is there such a thing? If not, I think I've just invented it.

The wonderful surprise baby shower on the weekend, and then finishing work on Wednesday both hit me in a way I didn't expect. Aside from the financial impact of now being on maternity leave, I'm now facing the transition from career and lovely, cosy relationship with Justin to impending motherhood and bleary-eyed zombiedom.

It's actually happening.

I already feel somewhat trapped, having only days left until we enter this new world of diapers and spit-up and cheerios crunching underfoot for the next several years.

What if our child just drives me nuts? What if he's just a hyper little brat, and more importantly, what is it that I'll do wrong that will create the monster? What if junior grows up to operate a tilt-a-whirl and breathe with his mouth open? Will I have enough patience and love in me to be as happily consumed as every other parent seems to be? Will we ever go kayaking again?

People usually respond with one of two things: 1) "that's just your hormones talking" or 2) "it's different when it's your own baby". I hope both are true.

In the meantime, I am filling my days to the brim with christmasing and chocolate cookie baking and vacuuming and engagements and festooning ... and on and on. I figure if I just keep moving, I won't have time to stop and ponder what's about to happen.

I've got our excellent recording of the Messiah on repeat, loudly enough for the baby to practically feel the timpani vibrating through the floor. It seems to calm the nonstop thinking.