I can't imagine ever wanting to harm a baby. I just can't fathom it, but I've been reading a lot about postpartum depression and anxiety disorders and seriously freaking out that I could develop one. I probably already have a little bit of an anxious personality, so it would not surprise me if I had anxious, paranoid tendencies after the baby comes. The big picture things don't scare me. It's the little things (okay, so they're big to me). Like, what if I put the baby down into her crib at night and she stops breathing? I never thought I would be the kind of mom who lost sleep by constantly checking in on her child, but I can see how that happens. I can also understand why some new moms don't shower for days; they're terrified to leave the side of an infant.
Or, what if I pinch off her little fingers when I'm clipping those tiny fingernails? As the end of the pregnancy draws nearer, my fears loom larger. It's not that I'm afraid of making mistakes; I know those will happen. I know I will only grow through them. I'm afraid of falling into a deep psychosis and not being able to emerge. I'm terrified of a suffocating fear and that I won't be able to enjoy my baby because I'm obsessed with not hurting her! I know this sounds incredibly dire and not anything like the normal ramblings of someone who's happily pregnant. I apologize for that, but it's what's going on in the old brain of mine. I think this is what the What to Expect book refers to as normal fears and misgivings. What if your greatest fear about motherhood is that you'll be sucked into a black hole and won't have anything left for your child?
These thoughts have only popped up recently. I am beginning to realize that it won't be easy, that it won't be painless. There will be death with the new life, and I realize that some hopes and dreams and selfish plans will be laid to rest with the arrival of this sweet child. I do not dread meeting my daughter. I am so excited to finally hold her (ie get her out of me). I'm just hoping I'm knocked upside the head with passionate love because, at this very moment, ambivalence comes to mind and it scares me. I don't want to just casually acknowledge this miracle. I want to embrace it, but the fear of losing her and losing myself is so overwhelming right now. ( I can already see it. I'll be driving people nuts because I won't know what I'm doing. And I'll be crying all the time, walking around in a leaky nursing bra, unshowered and smelling like dried milk. The cats will be following me around because of the smell. There will be seven days worth of mascara crust under my eyes, and Brandon will avoid me like the plague as I desperately shove a screaming baby into his arms so I can, God forbid, put on some deodorant. When the time comes to go back to work, I won't know how to function, and I will lose my job to a seventeen year old...)
I know that this is probably just your run-of-the-mill hormonal rant and a mixture of reading too many online articles on PPD and having swollen feet and going into work on what should have been a snow day. For what it's worth,I would like to look back on this post in a couple of months and laugh at my silly fears. I will be taken care of, but why am I afraid?
This is all coming from the girl who had a breakdown in her in-laws' bathroom because she put all of her weight down on a swollen ankle, so take it with a grain of salt. In my defense, though, I've been up since 5:30am ( a mixture of insomnia and snow day excitement) and have not had the traditional pregnancy benefit of "getting off my feet" or "taking it easy". When I hurt, people, I hurt. And tonight, I just wanted to be crabby, sit around and wallow in preggie-pity, and have Brandon listen to me whine about my ankles and my stretch marks and the fact that there's a PERSON wiggling around inside of me and sticking her little limbs into my ribs. We had dinner at his parents', and I didn't know it was supposed to be followed by a movie. I literally could not stay another two hours to finish a movie, Inception, of all things. My chair was uncomfortable. I was moody and swollen, and ... just. . . I just wanted to break away from the crowd and cry in the bathroom and throw a little fit until he felt compelled to come downstairs looking for me.
And that's exactly what happened (minus the fit because I'm a little more mature than that). So, I'm sitting here in my blue terry cloth moomoo, counting the baby's kicks and clawing at my belly (ok, just scratching), and rejoicing that I don't have to go to work tomorrow. Maternity leave can't get here soon enough. I'm tired. I know it's a little early in the game to feel this way, but there's only ten more weeks of this. Ten more weeks of swollen, unrecognizeable feet. I didn't think I'd be a waddler, but I am. And a limper. And sometimes I pee on myself when I bend over or sneeze. ::uncomfortable silence::
Dear Jesus, please save me from the trap of post-partum depression and mood killers. Let me rejoice in the miracle of this sweet baby and not be so obsessed with rituals and routines and rules. Let me just enjoy her and love her and crave what's best for her.
( I am all over the place tonight. Sorry, guys.)
Okay, going now. Because, for sure, you've had enough.
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