Now, when you’re pregnant one thing you’ll constantly hear is something along the lines of, “Oh, just wait until you hold your child for the first time. The love you feel for him will be like nothing you’ve ever known.” Let me tell you, I felt a lot of stuff the day I gave birth to my son. But love was not one of those feelings. I had a lot of guilt about that in the beginning—something had to be wrong with me that I wasn’t in love with my son the day I met him, right?
Fast-forward a year and some odd months and here I am—older and wiser. There are women who fall in love with their babies immediately. ::Throws confetti:: Yay for them! Then there are women like me, who are so consumed by the magnitude and gravity of the situation that they can’t quite make enough room in their spinning heads for love just yet.
I had just birthed a human. Out of my vagina. If you haven’t done it yet, let me tell you that it HURTS. Like no other pain I’ve ever experienced in my whole damn life. And it doesn’t just hurt when the baby is crowning and making his appearance into the world. It hurts for DAYS ON END. And really, since we’re being so honest with each other, let me add that I’m just starting to come to terms with the fact that things will never be quite the same down there.
Anyway, where was I… oh yes, okay. So here we are almost 15 months after B was born and I can tell you without any hesitation that I love my son to bits and pieces. So much so that it hurts sometimes. And I can’t imagine a life without him in it. I don’t want to imagine a life without him in it. And there’s my problem. I get anxiety when I think about all the “what if’s.”
B is a boy and boys get into situations where they cause themselves bodily harm. It’s inevitable. I have two brothers, I know the sort of idiocy that happens when they get around each other. It’s like a rite of passage or something. Is it crazy to already worry about the damage he will do to himself when he’s not even walking yet? Maybe. But just the fact that I know it’s coming is enough to make me want to run to the doctor and ask for some happy pills as a prophylactic measure.
The worst time of day is when I lay down to go to sleep. After I’ve obsessively checked B to make sure he’s breathing (I think he’s breathing but let me get closer just to make sure. Wait, I can’t hear over my own breathing. OK, stop breathing for a second. OK, he’s definitely breathing.) and touch his arm to make sure he doesn’t feel cold (Should I put a blanket on him? What if he gets himself wrapped up like a burrito and can’t breathe?? What if the pajamas I put on him weren’t warm enough? What if he’s too hot?) I get into bed and have some kind of awful thought. Every night. Something like, B runs into the street and gets hit by a car. Then I’m lying there with my eyes wide open like I’m in some cheesy horror flick and some rendition of the following conversation ensues:
Irrational Me: Oh my God, what if that happens? That could totally happen.
Rational Me: Yes, but the chances of it happening are small. You just have to teach him to be safe and watch him carefully while he’s still young.
Irrational Me: Yes but I can’t be with him all the time.
Rational Me: Billions of people get through the day without seriously hurting themselves. Even the not-so-bright ones.
Irrational Me: Okay, you’ve got a point there.
And it doesn’t help that I read sad stories constantly about parents who’ve lost a child. The most recent one was in Good Housekeeping. (Yes, I skip over Cosmo and Glamour at the grocery store and buy Good Housekeeping instead. Shut up.) It was about a little girl (I think she was about two years old) who had third degree burns over 60% of her body. While she was in the hospital recovering she was on pain medication, became severely dehydrated and ultimately died as a result. Well holy @#$*! Please let me never have to know that kind of pain.
I think this anxiety is normal. That it’s just a natural part of being a parent and that eventually the fears dwindle. But I suspect that the fears will always be there, only the ones I have now will be replaced by different ones as B gets older and more independent. But really, isn’t this the kind of stuff that people should tell you when you’re pregnant? This is useful information, no?
Brendan will be 15 months old in two days!
