When I was pregnant, everyone was all about “warning” me about what was coming next. I walked around much of those 10 months (let’s face it, pregnancy is 10, not nine, months) absolutely terrified. The warnings flew at me from every angle — in the checkout line at Target, on the street, slipping my shoes on and walking out of the yoga studio.
Warnings, warnings everywhere about what was to come — from the excruciating, mind-numbing pain of childbirth to the shell of my former self I was about to become once I had her.
