I see pictures of others, houses filled to the brim with babies. And it confuses my mind a little bit; I’m not quite sure how to feel. I am excited for her—for the marvelous, wonderful child she is growing in her womb—and yet sad for me. And yet happy for me.
I always thought a big family was in my stars. I pitied those who came from 3, or 2, or god-forbid, just one. But when I can’t even confront the underbelly of that thought, when I can’t even squeak open just one of my eyes to peek at the magnitude, this is when I worry that it’s not right. For how could it be right, when so unexamined?
My son is ready. My husband is ready. We’re just waiting on me.
When I remember the feelings and the very vicious and terribly mean thoughts that poured through my brain like a waterfall, drowning any sense of sanity, I immediately retreat into that safe space of “I’m not ready”.
But I’m getting worried; What if I’m never ready? Is a singleton, then, what was actually in the cards for us? These racing thoughts leave me feeling hollow and guilt-ridden. This depression, my anxiety; it must somehow be my fault. It’s all my fault. If only I was stronger, more like her, less like me. And the guilt is so very heavy. But is the weight of guilt a good reason to make a life-changing decision? I turn it over in my mouth; once, twice, three times. Pregnancy, Birth, Motherhood.
Either way, there is no peace. Each option leaves me cringing in anxiety, in fear. This isn’t one of those things that can wait, really. Time marches onward and children grow up. But I can’t deny the fact that oh boy, is it nice to finally be even just a little bit comfortable. That I’m not sure I want the whole big-family-thing. That I can’t imagine handling any more than I already do.
So for now, I close my eyes, I pick up a book, I divert my attention. But more and more I’m trying to lean into these scary thoughts. Simmer in them as more and more bubbles rise to the top. It’s uncomfortable. It’s uncomfortable. It’s scary. All I can promise is that I’ll try.