The Dinosaurs are Watching by Laurie Wagner

As I was getting into my car tonight, a young woman and her small child rushed across the street and headed my way. My first thought upon seeing the mom-pale skinned with brown, stringy hair, a thousand silver chains across her neck, and a blouse that hung below her shoulders revealing a rose tattoo-was that she wanted money. Big city living has made me fairly jaded, so I quickly pulled together a line about not having any....in case she asked.

The little girl was darker than her mother-a little pudgy with brown bangs that hung over her eyes. She looked scared and held her mother's hand.

"Excuse me," said the woman, "but do you live in that house over there?" she asked, pointing to mine. "Yes," I answered. "Well my daughter thinks it's haunted. Is it?" I looked down at this little girl, suddenly resembling Wednesday from the Addams Family. She couldn't have been more than five, and I wondered if this were some sort of omen or message. "Why, no," I answered, looking straight into Wednesday's eyes. "My house is perfectly safe. And I have three cats and two dinosaurs in the yard to protect me in case anything happens!"

"Dinosaurs!" The girl shrieked.

"Yes," I answered, sounding like some perky fairy godmother, but wondering for just a split second if there were ghosts in my house and shuddering at the thought.

"Look mama! She's pregnant!" said the little girl, as she reached out to touch my protruding belly. "That's right," I exclaimed. "I wouldn't have a baby in a haunted house, now would I?"

But there had been something concerning me about the house ever since we'd moved in. It was something about the baby's room that I just couldn't put my finger on. Maybe it was because we kept the door closed all the time. Our cats nearly ruined our other place with their fleas and territorial spraying wars, so there was no way I was going to let them in there.

But sometimes when I walk down the hall and pass the baby's room, I have this really eerie need to open the door and check to make sure that everything is okay, even though baby isn't due for months. Sometimes I even look into the crib, half expecting to see my child lying there. I think part of the problem is that there's not enough natural light in the room and it feels too dark for a newborn baby. The darkness inspires my worst fears; I'm afraid I'm going to open the door one day and see some horrible sight; a man with a knife, a dead baby, gigantic cats with fleas. They should never have made that movie about Rosemary's Baby. "We need to spend more time in the baby's room," I told my husband in my seventh month of pregnancy. "We should try sleeping in there to liven it up-at least we should put some artwork on the walls."

The thing is, it's very weird getting ready for a baby. It's awkward putting so much enthusiasm and energy into making space for someone you don't know yet, but who you do know is going to change your life forever. It's kind of like leaving the door open for Elijah; there's so much faith involved and scared as you are, there's no going back. But mostly there's the fear of whether the baby is going to be okay and whether my sex, drugs, and rock and roll past is going to heave it's ugly head and catch up with me. I tell myself that I'll be able to love anything I give birth to, but as I stand at my child's door, I'm not sure about anything. I've gotten the crib, the changing table and the night light, but I have no idea how to take care of a child. It occurs to me that I've never actually spent any time with one, and have never changed a diaper. I don't even know if I like babies or if they like me, and I feel guilty standing here pregnant and having these thoughts.

It was so easy for us. One day we decided we were ready, a month later I was pregnant. Granted we had been together for seven years, but should I have given this more thought? What's going to happen to my life? Will I be a good mother? Will Mark and I stay together? Am I capable of loving another person? "Dinosaurs!" the little girl said. "Where?" "In the patch of flowers by the gate," I said. "Go and see."

And they did, mother and daughter walked hand in hand over to my garden and peered over the wall. I knew they couldn't see our plastic Tyrannosaurus's well from where they stood, but I knew they were there, guarding the path to the house, to our home, and it made me feel a little bit better. Maybe they'd even scare away a couple of creepy, old ghosts too.