I’ve been debating whether or not to call out what feels like the proverbial elephant in the room with regard to this pregnancy: FEAR. All of the fears.
I have many.
I’m not sure if it’s just adding fuel to the fire by talking and writing about them or if it is better to attempt to keep them at bay by not mentioning them.
But, I think these fears have reached a bit of a boiling point, so I’ve made a deal with them: I’ll give them one blog post worth of airtime and then I’m returning to my disciplined quest to live in a nirvana-esque state of peace and calm where I give no second thought to anything negative. (I just rolled my eyes a little there; you can too.)
So, here it is people. ALL of the fears. In (mostly rhetorical) question format, because the basis of course for all these fears is the UNKNOWN, the “what if?”.
What if my baby has eleven fingers?
What if I can’t hack the whole labor thing and this baby never actually makes a departure from me?
What if this baby inherits the worst from both Kyle and I, thus causing him or her to be an anxiety-ridden (me) homo sapien with an oversized noggin (Kyle)?
What if we get a screamer? (You know, the kind of baby that never.stops.crying.)
What if this baby immediately knows that I’m a rookie and senses my fear and doesn’t ever take me seriously as his/her mother?
What if I fail to instill proper time and financial management skills into this child and he or she ends up living in my basement forever, consuming heinous amounts of Doritos with no real human interaction save for a few cyber friends?
What if this baby is allergic to really specific or delicious foods like peanuts, gluten, or chocolate ganache?
What if all of our friends and family forget about us as we descend into the time warp that is “the newborn stage” and by the time we resurface everyone has moved on and replaced us?
What if we just don’t pull it off – the whole, raise-this-child-to-be-a-decent-person-but-at-the-very-least-keep-him/her-alive-for-18-years-preferably-much-longer-so-someone-will-visit-us-in-the-nursing-home thing?
What if all of my fears and worrying translate to this baby and we have a child who is even more panic-stricken than his or her mother, constantly providing statistical basis for all of the fears and since you can’t argue with statistics, I see this kid’s point and decide it’s best for all parties involved for us to become vegan and move to an underground bunker until Jesus comes back?
Uff. That felt good, like I reduced the pressure a little.
Now, I’m off to take some deep breaths and return to my practice of acknowledging my fears; countering them with, you know, common sense; and prayer. So much prayer.