Ever wonder why the late-70′s one-hit-wonder band, Chic, kept repeating that chorus over and over…and over again? Sure, they were talking about a crazy herky-jerky dance move, but if you’re a parent and you’ve emotionally freaked…yes, it’s pretty much the same. Minus the bass guitar and backup singers of course.

Yesterday I went to register at Babies R’Us. I had a coupon that gave me $5 for registering and, since I’m a SAHM/WAHM on a budget obviously much stricter than the U.S. deficit, I just had to do it. After the man in the purple vest babbled his bit about diapers and breast pumps , he handed me the scanner and sent me into the world of all things baby.

First thing, I headed for the bathroom. Technically I would have scanned one of those if it would have had a bar code on it. Do you know how many times a pregnant lady has to pee? A billion and one. Count a billion and two…because right after I finished peeing and washing my hands, I headed back into the stall for round two. Never drink a 32 oz of Crystal light before shopping. Just sayin’.

When I finally rolled my purple mamoth-of-a-cart over to the baby decor aisle, and began looking around, I began realizing all of the things that I would need. I forgot that babies need sheets and pad covers, and a mattress (because we gave that away to a needy family)…and…

I think my eye started twitching and my knees started wobbling at some point. An associate passed by and asked me how I was doing. I REALLY wanted to say: OMG!!! I’m freaking’ pregnant! …but instead I calmly replied, “Fine. Thanks.” She continued on her merry way and I…well, almost passed out.

Pregnant when you’re almost 39 is different. Much different. Most of my friends have kids in grade school; some even have kids already in high school. They are settled and are just now starting to enjoy life as a Mom with liberties – going out for a drink after the kids are in bed or having a girls weekend at the shore. 38 is kind of like having a baby in high school – everyone will be hanging out at the local hamburger joint and “little miss harlot” is left with a baby attached to one breast, and the only one checking in on a Friday night is “Missy’s Mom”…to see if she survived and made it through another sleepless night. Add in the cellulite and wild arm flaps that will knock anyone out that crosses your path of course.

Mid-morning I’ll probably be hanging out with my Mommy and Me “peeps” wearing Baby Phat and Apple Bottom Jeans (mine barely fitting my double-wide red-beans-and-rice thighs). Getting loooow to Ke$ha and Rihanna, and learning to text, while IM’ing about great family photographers, with “kids” 15-years my junior. And, by night of course, I’ll be passed out on the floor, in two-hour intervals, soaking in the sweet sound of lullabyes and the dogs licking my face to inform me that they now need to pee. Or worse…

Diapers. Just saying the word makes me want to crawl back in bed and sleep like Mr. Rip Van. My MIL said, “Don’t worry…we’ll send you coupons.” Somehow I’m left wondering how a $1.00 off coupon is really going to make a dent in a $26.99 pack-o-week butt covers. Sure, I’ve contemplated cloth diapers, but they are an investment too. Of course, by the time we get to “biggies” and “blow-outs”, I highly doubt I am going to be in any mood to scrub-a-dub with poo in the tub. I’m a SAHM, but I’m not above vomitting. I think I’d rather give up my insulin and rally in a carb coma…well, than “stoop to poop.”

When I was pregnant with Madison, I couldn’t wait for her to be born. There was no herky-jerky eye-twitching or knee-jerking, with or without 70′s funk. I may have bee-bopped to a little Black Eyed Peas but never convulsed at the site of crib siderails.

Maybe it’s because I know what’s on the horizon. Perhaps it’s because I know the physical pain after coming home from the hospital, the costs involved and the stress. I don’t know…maybe I’m just worried Apple Bottom jeans don’t come in my size of my thighs.