So we got a new camera, and I am slowly getting used to that constant clicking sound which is my husband learning all the ins and outs of our new SLR by taking pictures of me in every conceivable mood, and believe me, that's a LOT of pictures. Pictured above is me making my Sad Face, after growing weary of smiling for the camera for two days straight. I actually really was sad as I had just gotten off the phone with a loved one who mentioned a conversation she had about me during her book club. When the book club member asked my Loved One ("LO") if LO thought I would have a family, LO said, "well, we think so. She is having a baby in July, but she can't take care of a purse, so we aren't sure how this is going to go."
When I heard this, I naturally thought I misheard my interlocutor. A purse? I can't take care of a purse? That's news to me. I never heard my Furla complaining, or the Burberry I bought after I got my first Adult paycheck. I was hurt, but I didn't say anything during the conversation. But, boy, when I got off the phone, Jeff got such an earful about how hurt I was that LO would have the opinion about me that (1) I can't take care of a purse and (2) therefore I can't take care of a baby. And you know what, does it
really matter what anyone thinks about my mothering? The answer is no, because it only upset me so much because I have my own quiet, deep down doubts. It's hard not to notice how fragile babies are. I mean, they weigh about 7 lbs out of the chute, and they can't defend themselves or carry mace or say when they are being held too tight or not enough. Just because they are mostly made of cartilage doesn't mean it's ok that I have no idea what I am doing. My point is that babies are small and I am clumsy.
I won't be coy. I am scared. I scared more than any other adventure in my life. Dating until the age of 33 had it's total suckage value, but it wasn't like this. I always knew that the world was full of men, and I had a back up plan to go to a small, third-world country to offer myself up for an arranged marriage if I simply
had to get married. I can't think of what this equates to. Being broken up with is horrific, and usually permanent (if you are lucky), but it's adult. It's two people who have volition and teeth and can support themselves separately or apart. Not so with our little fetal friends. It's just not so.
Blog readers, I am a nervous wreck. I have sobbed three times today, and it ain't over yet. The occasion for this drenching of my face with my own salty tears is that tomorrow we go in for our ultrasound. It's the "big ultra-sound" also known as the "20-week" ultra sound that, somewhat confusingly, takes place anywhere from 18-22 weeks into pregnancy. Thinking about it for more than 3 seconds reduces me to more sobbing. In part, it's very scary to be so in love and to not be sure if everything is ok. Tomorrow will be a chance to see Peppermint and ensure that our little one is growing and getting everything necessary to join us in the outside world soon enough. I feel so out of control. There is no way for me to really impact this process: whatever is happening genetically, is happening. Same with Pepps' gentitals and organs and all of it. I can't buy my baby's good health. I can't buy my own peace of mind about it. I know we had good reason to eschew genetic testing, but the ramification of that is that I have no idea. I just have no idea.
Billions of healthy babies are born every year to moms less educated, careful, and healthy than I. I know. I know. But I also know that I suck at statistics. The night before the Bar Exam I thought about the statistics over and over again. I was sure that 90% passage rate for my law school wasn't good enough. I would somehow go from valedictorian of my law school class to bar exam flunkie. And, because my brain has no medium speed, I went straight to losing my job, losing all my friends, my hair (don't ask, it's just so catastrophic inside my brain), and my ability to proceed through life as a literate adult. And, this is about 80 billion times worse.
So, I am here to say that I am a putative mom who is terrified beyond speech right now and it's really hard to get me to a place that is beyond speech. I would trade anything in the world for this to come out ok. And, the really annoying part is that I build up these doctor's appointments, work myself into a total apopletic seizure the night before, and forget there is another reason to worry coming. It doesn't here with this 20-week ultrasound. Hell no. There's kindergarten and then driving and dating and getting (and keeping) a job. Then there's worrying about my offsprings' ultrasounds.
Hey, look at me getting all optimistic about my kids' futures! Go me.
On a slightly less neurotic note, we will find out Pepps' gender tomorrow as long as Pepps opens the legs for a shot at the goods. I begged my husband to dream a little bit about names for both genders because after tomorrow, we 50% of our options are narrowed. The dreams get more focused and more real, but we also have to say goodbye to the opposite gender. Today, and for 16 more hours, the world is open to every conceivable possibility. Little boy. Little girl. Tomorrow, the game changes-- definitely for the better, but a change nonetheless. And I really struggle with change.
This is the hardest thing I have ever done in my life without exception. Without even a close second. My mom friends tell me to hang in there because there is so much joy coming. I hope to bequeath to my kids a capacity for joy that reaches even 10% of my capacity for worry. That would be such a lovely legacy.
Here's to technology and faith and clarity and gender and terror and dizzying love and the power of commitment to my Peppermint no matter what happens.
People, we have hit the 20-week mark and that means that if Ms. P comes on schedule, we are half way done. Incredible. There are lots of halves to celebrate:
