I was filling out forms today for my soon-to-be-born sons' pediatrician and came to the question: "Is there a family history of any of the following problems ... " Among the listed problems was allergies.
I asked my husband via text message if he was allergic to anything - obviously I'm a bad wife because I should have his allergies memorized, as well as his dislikes and likes and his social security number. His response to my text? Life. He's allergic to life.
Sounds pessimistic but considering our house got struck by lighting almost two weeks ago (yes, lightning), all our electronics were fried, there's a hole in the wall and carpet damage (in what will be the nursery), and we've been without air conditioning since and just found out we'll be waiting several days longer for that sweet, sweet cool air to caress our sweaty bodies ... I'll give him a pass. To put it lightly, it's been frustrating since we are definite creatures of habit and homebodies.
However, his remark made me think about my pregnancy.
Am I supposed to be happy-go-lucky constantly? You know, floating on a pregnancy cloud, nesting, picking out onesies and witty bibs that say things like "I Get My Looks From My Mom" or "Chicks Rock" or something equally nauseating? Am I not allowed to be scared? There's something about pregnancy that makes me feel as if I'm supposed to be this cheery, can't-wait-for-baby lady, you know, the type of lady I should be as a wife and when I am actually a mother.
I thought about this late last night while trying to sleep in a home without air conditioning - it was easily 85 degrees and my restless legs were ... umm ... restless. Two fans were blowing air hotter than dog's breath into my general direction and the ice pack on my chest was sweating worse than me in church if I ever actually went to church. I tried to trick my brain: It's not that hot in here, I'm not sweating even though I'm nude and uncomfortable, honest. Let's think about the people around the world who don't have luxuries like air conditioning (As the kids say, First World Problems). Around 3 a.m. I finally said: You know what!? THIS SUCKS. (Don't worry, a generous family member let us have an extra window unit so the bedroom is delightful now).
Anyway, I'm scared about having twins and excited too. Deep down in my heart I know it will all work out -- especially considering the shitty moms I've seen out and about and in the public eye - as a woman at an engagement party told me, "If Snooki can have a baby, anyone can have a baby." I know my husband and I will figure it out but I'm still scared. Scared I'll be so exhausted I'll want to scream at my child or pack up and leave town. Post partum depression scares me. Labor scares me. I'm scared I'll lose myself. I'm scared I'll be a bad mother and raise a bad kid all the teachers hate to have in their classroom. I'm scared I'll fail because this ain't an ambitious workout and diet I'm attempting to follow, this is motherhood. I'm scared about a lot of things because change is scary.
I was never the happy-go-lucky type, just not how I was raised. While I tend not to freak out in bad situations, figuring it's not helpful, I tend to look at my glass as half empty most of the time.
I'm not into the whole decorate-my-nursery-like-the-tackiest-theme-ride-at-Disney-World or adorable yet expensive onesies my sons will wear once, maybe, before they get too big. Frankly, I'm a Frugal Fanny. I'm reading a baby book on twins: "Ready Or Not Here We Come" by Elizabeth Lyons. It's my type of book - written by a honest woman who's been there and lived to tell the tale. However, I think past the suggestions in this book, a parenting style is mostly developed by learning along the way. I haven't changed a lot of diapers in my lifetime but I'm positive after 24-hours home with twin boys, I'll get the hang of it and be a Diaper Wizard ... well, I guess since I'm a woman a Diaper Witch, but that sounds awful.
This isn't to say I don't care, like I'm a laissez-faire parent-to-be, like I'm the cashier at Wawa I saw yesterday, who, after being told by a customer a toilet in the bathroom wasn't working, couldn't have cared less. I don't work there and I cared more about the stall than this young lady did. I'm not some Botox-ed out Housewife of Fancy Places who doesn't want anything baby-related in my home and, frankly, will have the baby raised by nannies.
I care about my twins and being a good mother but feel there's pressure put on mothers, especially expectant mothers, to be the best mother, to be Super Mom, making healthy bag lunches for their beautiful children who started walking at 6 months and speaking at 9 months. Super Mom's children are bi-lingual, star athletes, award winning musicians and poets. It's the American way, we want to be the best even if we're swallowing anxiety medication with white wine!
My feelings about this are similar to my sister's advice concerning breastfeeding. I am going to breastfeed my twins but, as my sister advised, not set myself up for failure. I don't want to be one of those lunatics who breastfeed until the child has a full set of adult teeth, however, I know the benefits of breast milk so I want to be Mama Moo Cow for as long as I can. Choo choo the Milk Train is coming into the station! However, I will not set myself up for failure. I will breastfeed as long as I can and that will be fine. I will do my best as a mother and that will be fine. I'm not a superwoman and shouldn't be expected to have superpowers, neither should any mother. Am I excited? Yes. Scared? Hell yes. But this is OK.
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