Dear Tiny.

Last night I had a mini-breakdown. They hadn't yet painted our new apartment (which meant that Chris could not paint OVER their paint yet), I couldn't handle cooking dinner in a kitchen filled with boxes and none of my pants were fitting. Plus we spent last weekend out of town and we had planned to go to three movies at the Tribeca Film Festival this week.

I hit a wall.

And bubbling up from the depths came anxieties about this pregnancy.

"I feel like I'm going to wake up and it's going to be October and all I will remember about this pregnancy is work and being busy and we won't have prepared a thing!" I cried. I was worried about labor, I was worried about not going to prenatal yoga, I was worried about having a name picked out. I don't know why I'm using the past tense; I AM worried about these things.

Tiny in his/her natural habitat.

"I don't want this to be our lives," I said, quite simply, once I had calmed down a bit. And that was true.

The past 16 weeks have gone by at various paces, but mostly light-speed. I am deeply concerned that the next 16 will pass in the same fashion if we don't do something about it, and QUICKLY. So we're working on that. We're not solved yet, but we know we have life pace problems.

During a phone call with Sima this afternoon, she suggested writing a sentence or two to the baby every day. I love this. So I present a little side content stream for the next six months. It's not pretty, but it gets the job done. It's called Dear Tiny.

I wrote the first entry in the subway on the way home tonight and almost teared up when I instinctively went to sign it. It's literally the first time I've ever referred to myself as a mother in written form.

And guys? That's quite a moment.

More from me soon.