hen I was pregnant with my first child, I found myself in the middle of a mall.  I was 8 months along, so you can imagine how tired and hormonal I was.  I needed a break from all the walking, so my husband left me on a bench out side of a cd store while he ran in to get something.  (Side note: it is extremely depressing that the term “cd store” probably dates me.  Stupid technology.)

I was out there, and with no stupid technology to give me an i-whatever to pass the time, I was forced to pepople watch.  The level above the level I was on was open to the floor below, so I had a good view of people walking from store to store on both levels.  Then, I caught the hunting/mating ritual of the wild teenager.  It was half enthralling, half horrifying.  All gag-inducing.

The pack of girls were primped and coiffed, just as I had done when I was that age.  (Except, they wore much shorter skirts that allowed a for a …ummm…”interesting” view from the level below.)  They giggled and and chatted as they hopped from store to store, probably drooling over a newer micro mini skirt or navel piercing or some other way to emulate the dirrrty Christina Agulara.  (Side note 2: I wonder if Xtina regrets dressing like a skank now that she has a child.  Oh no wait, she still does.  Okay then!)  And every once in a while the teens would look away from a store window and point at a cute boy on the level below, giggle some more, then keep going in the same fashion.

It made me wonder…how did my parents ever surrvied those years?  How the hell did they even allow me out of the house?  How could the parents of these girls allow them to parade around in public looking like that?!  They should be locked in their rooms! Forever!  And ever and ever and ever.

And ever.

But wait…what’s that?  There is movement behind the brush…er…escalator.  It’s a pack of wild teenage boys.  They too were dressed like idiots.  And acting like idiots.  And were also not so much at the mall to actually spend money, but instead to track the opposite sex.  They were on the level below, and had now spotted the female pack.  (Or, shall I say, the underwear of the day.)  They made the move up to the “next level.”

They followed behind – 10 to 20 feet at all times.  When the females stopped, they stopped.  When the females went into a store, so did they.  They admired the girls’ short skirts a little more.  They high fived and clapped after one of them surely said a derogatory underwear joke.

They made me wonder…how did my parents ever survive those years?  How the hell did they not kill every boy that even looked my way?  How was I not forced to wear Eskimo clothing every where I went?

And it hit me:  I had one of those growing inside of me.

Can. Not. Breathe.

My hormones couldn’t stand for it any more.  I started to freak out.  I couldn’t breathe.  My husband was no where to be found.  I needed someone to talk me off the ledge fast.  Otherwise the mall cops would be escorting me out of the place for trying to use my spit to wipe off the teen’s excessive make-up or for trying to pull up the the boys’ saggy pants.

I called (on my way-lame flip phone) my sister.

“Beeeeeecky.   I’m having a panic attack.”  *hiccup* *sob* *snarf*

“I’m at the mall.  And there are teenagers.  And they are chasing each other around.  And flirting.  And dressed like prostitutes and pimps.  And they are acting like wild animals on the prowl. And, And, And….I have one of those crazy things inside me!  Right now!  It’s going to be like those girls and I’m going to panic and I can’t do it and I don’t know if I’m cut out for this and SaveMeDearGodICan’tHandleThePressure!”

Then, my sister, in her infinite wisdom and years of experience, said to me – rather calmly…

“Mandy, that is why they come out as babies.  God knows how hard it is going to be so he gives you a long time to work up to it.”

Brilliant.

The breaths started to return.  My blood pressure was returning to normal.  My husband came back and told me we would do it together.

Okay.  It’s okay.  Yes, I will have one of those in a few years.  And yes, that might suck donkey balls, but for now, I was having a beautiful baby girl.  It was okay.

Cut to today.

I’m in the coffee shop.  There is an adorable little girl at the table next to us.  She is toddling around, giggling with delight, and calling “mama!” with a happy little face.  My uterus pangs.  I feel like it was just yesterday that I was in that mall, freaking out, and so worried about what was to come.  But we have weathered the storm so far.  Each age has had its challenges, to be sure, but we have done okay.  Maybe we could consider another?

Then three teenage girls sit in the couch directly behind me.  I catch just a snippet of the conversation…

“I’m going to apply to that store when they open.  Maybe I won’t get arrested this time!  Hahaha.  What’s that called, anyway?  When you steal from your employer?”

Yeah.

So, um, Uterus?

Shut the fuck up.

We still have a long, long way to go.  It still might get a hell of a lot harder.  Uterus, instead of getting all gooey and mushy and hormonal, why don’t you follow the head’s lead: go get your ass on google and find the best and biggest and most unbreakable room lock you can find.

STAT.