Becoming a mother.

When you find yourself, suddenly, with child--with no preperation at all--it's easy to forget one major thing. After you get done worrying about pregnancy and the fact that your stomach is extending further and further and further without your permission, you still have to worry about being a mother.

My mind is just starting to catch up with my stomach. I've come to grips with the whole labor thing, with the whole expanding midsection thing. I've started to let myself realize that I will soon be responsible for a newborn. I've never even held a newborn. Mine will probably be the first. I've read up on colic and breastfeeding and the pros and cons of different sleeping arrangements. I think I freak Jason out sometimes when I start spouting off facts on co-sleeping or SIDS.

But beyond doing everything in my power to keep the newborn alive, I am going to be a mother. For the rest of my life. Like, someone will call me "mom," not Sarah, and probably be weirded out at some point in his/her life that my real name is, in fact, not "mom."

And once you start thinking about this it opens up an entirely new Pandora's Box of concerns and what-if's and labels and questions. I'm going to have a child. A teenager. An adult. And I never spent a second picturing myself as a mom, or wondering what kind of mother I'll be. I'm starting from scratch.

I feel a lot better about it with Jason as my partner. He--unlike me--is one of the people you just know will be a good parent. Sitting at his show in Memphis last weekend, his extraordinarily drunk friend looked at me, so sincerely, and said "I've always known Jason will be the best dad ever." Like, really? You gave that some thought? Between chugging 24-packs? He said this to me after shouting "Freebird!!!" at the top of his lungs each time a song ended. Jason just has that quality about him.

The only real confidence-booster I have is the example of my mom. Because in my opinion, it literally doesn't get any better. Growing up, I was terrified of disappointing her, yet she was never strict or authoritative. She was my friend and my mother. She didn't kill me when she found beer under my bed, but I still never dreamed of doing it again. (Well, at least in my house. Underage.)

In high school, you meet those kids with the "fun" parents, the ones who throw the parties at their house or who, like one mother I met, brag about their pocket-pipe shaped like a tube of lipstick. That particular mom ended up having an affair with one of her son's high school friends later. Not someone I want to emulate.

My mom somehow struck a perfect balance of "cool" and "mom."

Last night, for example, she made me feel like the old one. I was in my pajamas, in bed. It was 7 at night, already past my 6 o'clock bed time (I wake up at 2am). I get a call from her on my cell, and I reluctantly answer because I was just drifting off to sleep. Giggling, she says, "Come outside in five minutes. And bring Louie." Then she hangs up.

Honestly, I have no idea at this point what's going on. But my mom has never called me out of the blue and asked me to come outside. So I throw on some sweatpants, grab my dog, and head out the door. I don't even put on shoes. Or a bra.

There's a stretch SVU limo parked in front of my apartment. The driver is holding the door open for me. So I cover my chest with my arms (white T-shirt, no bra), and climb into the limo. My mom, her friend Trey, and their younger friend (a few years older than me), all former co-workers of my mom when she was the Executive Director of a succesful Nashville non-profit are sitting inside (she's now the executive director of a homeless shelter. She also has a career I wish I could inherit).

They're dressed to the nines, champaigne in-hand. I'm wearing a see-through shirt. I did not expect to be sitting in a limo that night, or at all in the next decade.

It's the youngest of the three's birthday, and also a celebration that she just graduated with her Master's degree. My mom and Trey decided on a whim to rent a limo to take them to dinner.

So we take a drive around my neighborhood. We talk about the baby, about my burgeoning bump, about the fact that I was in bed at 7 o'clock and my mom is drinking champaigne in a limo. Right before they drop me off, rain starts falling in sheets. The driver doesn't have an umbrella, but I assure him that it's fine, that unlike these ladies I'm just going upstairs and getting back in bed. I say good-bye and make a run for my door, with Louie shivering in my arms.

When I walk back inside, Jason is sitting in the couch with an understandably confused look on his face. I'm soaking wet, so is Louie.

And then, still wet, I get back under the covers and fall asleep, while my mom parties it up with her friends.

That's the kind of mom, I guess, I want to be.