My only real experience with kids.

For about ten months during my sophomore year of college, I was a nanny.

I couldn't tell you why I did it. I'm not good with kids. I've never particularly liked them. I don't have any experience that would make a sweet, naive young couple think I was qualified to take care of their 2, 4 and 7 year old girls. But I answered an ad from my university's job listings, and I sent a majorly fluffed up e-mail to my employers-to-be.

I remember I told them I was a good student (true), a good driver (true), dependable (true) and a non-smoker (false). I don't know where that lie came from, except that non-smokers just seem more trustworthy.

I remember at my job interview, they said they really liked the fact that I straight-up told them I didn't smoke, since they were avid anti-tobacco people and their last nanny had ended up smoking in the car with the kids. Me, my lies and my cigs-1, honesty and tobacco-free lungs-0.

I felt guilty for about two seconds, but, hey, I would never smoke in the car with the kids. I might sneak in a cig during their naps, but I'm not that much of Britney Spears wannabe.

So, believe it or not, I actually did pretty well for a while. Those kids loved me. We made up games, I drove them to their lessons and classes on time and bought them drinks at the gas station when I had to stop for a Red Bull run.

But now that I'm pregnant, I'm having flashbacks of my time there. And it's not doing a lot for my mommy confidence.

The 7-year-old drove me crazy. Unlike the 2 and 4 year olds, she wasn't cuddly or cute. I'm 5'1, and have always been tiny (thank a lifetime of Crohn's for that), so she was my size. She was like a friend from school, only she made me watch High School Musical and forced me to feed her Oreo after Oreo even though I promised her mom I wouldn't.

And one of the rare times we did the cliched baby-sitter, baby-sitee game where I let them ride on my back while I nay-ed around their living room, she insisted she be on the saddle every time. My poor back couldn't take it, and sent her to her room so as to save my poor 5'1 self. She cried.

Another time, the 2 year old--normally my favorite of the three--pooped on the floor. She was still potty-training and wore a diaper, which I (thankfully) never had to change.

But this one day, I hear her enter the bathroom. I hear her giggle. I hear her leave the bathroom and close the door.

"Did you go?" I asked her.

"Yesssss," she replied, still with the inane giggling, and ran off.

And sure enough, she had, on the bathroom floor, about a foot away from her intended target.

I lost it. Up until this point, I literally didn't know this was ever a possibility--aside from the work of drunk frat boys and demented janitors.

"Seriously, do humans actually do this?" I yelled at her.

She cried.

"Pick it up!" I yelled again.

She cried, and ran into her room, locking the door.

So I picked it up. And then I swore off two-year-olds.

Yeah, I'm gonna be a great mom.

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Pregnancy perfection and the woman I'll never be.

I'm sure I'm joining a huge club of expectant mothers who have an unhealthy obsession to TLC's A Baby Story.

It's really the only show on that, A) airs essentially 24/7 and, B) doesn't make it seem that pregnancy equates to an automatic death wish.

So, I'm terrified, I need answers, and accordingly I spend at least an hour every day watching TiVo-ed episodes.

And I've now come to the conclusion that this--this sole show that actually details the, you know, pushing a baby out of your vagina part, is part of what has been making me feel inadequate.

The women are all, well, old. They're all married. They all have a plan. They all scream for ten (albeit, edited) minutes and then talk about how it's the best thing that's ever happened to them.

We have two choices within the pop culture zeitgeist to watch a pregnancy unfold. And it's either this, or 16 and Pregnant, which is the complete opposite and makes me feel completely adequate and prepared (only because I have a college degree and doubt my life after pregnancy will entail any screaming at my mom for not letting me extend my curfew).

Where's the middle ground? Where's the voice for those of us in between? Those of who don't have 80's mullets and a white picket fence or a total lack of a life plan? Those of us in throes of the prospect of raising a child, all while navigating through what society says we're supposed to do in our early 20s?

I think I will be a good mom. I know my fiance will be a great dad. I think I'll figure out what I want to do with my life, and I don't know if it will look anything like what I thought it would when I was in college and my main concern was how to ace this test while simultaneously battling a monstrous hangover.

I suppose that's why so many mothers have turned to blogging, and within those women I have found a voice and a message I wouldn't be able to find anywhere else. But of my two favorite mommy bloggers, Rebecca at GirlsGoneChild.net and Heather at Dooce.com, both still have something I don't. A little bit of time. A little bit of an established career. A wedding ring. A plan. And, still, without them, even only at 8-weeks-pregnant, I think my hormones would've already gotten the best of me.

I don't think I'll ever be completely comfortable in my 23-year-old skin as a mother.

But unlike my virtual friends on A Baby Story, at least I don't have a perm. Or a mullet. Or a camera in my face whilst crowning.

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