I used to love scary movies.

And not just movies: TV shows, books, ghost stories–I ate it all up. If there was an element of the unexplained, the macabre, the suspenseful, I was in. While my now-husband and I were dating, we subsisted on such forms of entertainment: I was thrillingly haunted by images from The Strangers for months. We tuned in weekly to the campy fun of Harper’s Island. Then we got married and I got pregnant and Ryan Murphy added American Horror Story to our TV listings and I read all I could about it, studied the startling images in ads and prepared myself for a good scare. When the show began, I was seven months along. My husband and I parked ourselves in front of the TV, my belly nearly blocking our view. We turned to each other, grinning, and pressed Play.

And something changed. I couldn’t handle the scary anymore.

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There was a time in my life when I wondered if I would be alone forever. Now, as a mother of two, I am assured daily that I will never, ever be alone. Ever. From showering with an audience to washing dishes with a kid hanging off my leg to viewing Downton Abbey while nursing an infant, life has been a group venture lately. And while I’ve been able to handle the logistics of this setup so far (haven’t ever forgotten to pick up my kid from preschool–Self High-Five!), the implications of it escaped me…until recently. You see, I had an epiphany of sorts. As much of an epiphany as a woman operating on minimal sleep and brain function can (picture less light bulb, more flickering candle). That epiphany had to do with an aspect of my personality that I am just beginning to understand, thanks to Susan Cain’s research and my own extensive writing on the subject.

Every new mother has been warned about the possibility of post-partum depression. The obstetrician asks barely-veiled questions about whether we have a hard time getting out of bed (seriously? Because the answer is yes, always) just before giving us the green-light to engage in the activity that got us here in the first place. Rather than declaring our lady parts to be game-day ready, maybe OBs need to do a personality screening for their patients. Because I have it on good authority (mine) that introverts such as myself are at a significant disadvantage when it comes to adjusting to life with kids.

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I’ve battled sleeplessness at various points in my life. But I wouldn’t diagnose myself an insomniac, mainly because my occasional inability to get shuteye corresponds closely to my own personal anxiety levels and is more a manifestation of a frequent indulgence in good old-fashioned worrying than a medical condition. And while worrying (and the control-freak nature it reveals) can be a top cause of sleep deprivation, I know of another culprit that has it beat: CHILDREN.

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Dear Prospective Parent:

Below you will find two detailed schedules. The first outlines a typical day for you now, in your life without children. Following it is what a typical day will look like should you decide to procreate. Study this second schedule carefully and compare it with the first, noting the changes that will take place once you become a parent. Be advised…and afraid. BE VERY AFRAID.

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Yes, I’ve taken the Myers-Briggs personality test; is there anyone left who hasn’t made it part of their Facebook timeline? But more importantly, I have taken the Sex and the City personality test, and though I believe the questions are skewed to allow most women the opportunity to indulge the belief that they are such a Carrie, I have always tested Miranda. Caustic, occasionally androgynous (see Season 1) Miranda. For me, the red hair and cynicism overshadow the Everywoman and propensity to date Russian jerks.

One of the great things about being a Miranda is that you always have a snappy comeback on hand. One of the not-so-great things? When you find out you’re pregnant and have to go searching for your maternal instinct.

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I don’t remember the first time he said it. But I do remember how enraged I felt as the baby was screaming, our sanity was departing, and my husband uttered the following words:

“Maybe he’s hungry.”

I wasn’t holding anything sharp at the time, which is obvious because I am not writing this from a women’s penitentiary. But I unleashed a verbal barrage, of this I am sure. My well-meaning partner was just looking for a solution, as men do; he’s a problem-solver. But the solution he offered were my boobs, and I was all, “My body, my choice! P.S. I’m going to KILL YOU.”

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My favorite thing about my boyfriend’s apartment in New York, located a block from mine, was probably the roof deck where he proposed to me. My least favorite thing? Gotta be the rat who lived in the wall.

As New Yorkers, we were accustomed to sharing our space with other creatures, but most rodents had the decency to remind us of their existence only around trash heaps and in the subterranean train tunnels. But that early-morning (and late-afternoon, and evening…) scratching, inches from our heads, reminded us with its creepy proximity that we city-dwellers were never truly alone. Which can be equal turns unsettling and comforting, a mixture of extremes that is so New York.

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Once I crossed the threshold of a school’s doors for the last time as a student (at the ripe old age of twenty-eight), a change overcame me. No longer was my favorite season represented by the hottest temperatures, longest days, and least amount of homework. I shifted my focus to a previously spurned time of year–a time of dwindling daylight, falling leaves, and cozy sweaters. AND BOOTS! (Along with decreased homework, the last decade of autumns have meant increased age and, therefore, sartorial comfort. Outerwear, thou art my friend.)

Three years ago, I was heavily pregnant during the fall. I decorated my belly for Halloween and hefted my growing weight around the kitchen, baking bread and nesting. Our son was born in early December of 2011. The singular benefit of that timeline for me was that I was not large and in charge during a Southeastern summer. This year, however, I type these words in September on a laptop propped against a gyrating belly. I suffered the summer months with barely-there dignity, the humidity and my contractions peaking way too often, and now that the weather is cooling and my girth nearly done expanding, I’m thinking more than ever about the benefits of fall. Especially for a woman about to give birth. Join me as I frantically talk myself into looking forward to this season’s offerings!

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How long does it take culture shock to wear off? I wonder for the one hundred and thirty-ninth time since we left New York, this time from the checkout line at Target. The woman in front of me, checking out at the register, appears to represent the seventies both in age and era: she waits until her items are totaled and only then reaches into her Dooney and Bourke purse, pulls out the matching checkbook case, and proceeds to write a check. Using the ultramodern credit card scanner as a rest, she painstakingly writes out her total and signs her name. I imagine her adding, in the “For” column, a description: “groceries for the week.” Then? She flips to her ledger and enters the check for her records. Five full minutes later, her check is processed and she and her cart are headed toward the door. And I am pulling up to the register, scanning my Amex, and wondering how the hell I ended up here.

It’s Part Two of my novel, The Growing Season–read more over at The Wheelhouse Review!