I’m an anxious person. Throw any change my way — good, bad, or neither — and I will find some anxiety. It’s my thing.
I’d hoped, though, that by the time we had kids, I’d have found a way to be less anxious and more blissful. Glowing. Excited and happy and ecstatic. I thought all the growing up I’d be doing between then and now would have changed me. I had this little dream that I’d be dreaming, not worrying.
But hey, I’m still me. Anxious Me. I shared one of the reasons for anxiousness the other day when I wrote about our messy ways.
I’m also anxious because:
I still haven’t made a final decision on birth center versus hospital. I’m waffling (because I’m Waffly Me), going in circles (Spinning Me?) about risks versus benefits versus risks versus benefits versus….
We’ve moved not one piece of furniture to make room for the nursery. Not one. Because…
We haven’t made a decision about the basement. Go all in and figure out how to make it inviting, or give in and find room for a guest room on the main floor?
If the guest room is on the main floor, it’ll have to share space with my office. Having shared my office with the cat room for a year, I’m loath to also stare at a bed while trying to motivate myself to work. Alternatives require shopping (bed/couch solution), moving really heavy desks to some unknown location, or brainstorming brilliant ideas.
I don’t really like being pregnant, clearly not a newsflash, but disappointing to me nonetheless. I never thought I would enjoy it, what with all the weird body changes and myriad discomforts, but somewhere I must have hoped I would be smiley and glowing. Dear Glowing Me, will you be showing up soon?
We haven’t chosen a daycare solution. The one down the hill (literally, I could walk down to our back property and through some trees and voila!) doesn’t have a waiting list so we have to call when the baby’s born. All other options involve driving 20 minutes just to turn around and come home, which just seems silly. I guess I should get over that.
O.M.G only six months to go. Ack! Self-explanatory.
I haven’t told my work peeps. I have this idea that I’ll wait until after my yearly review, telling myself it’s best so nobody has the option to helpfully discriminate. Don’t buy it; I’m just chickening out. I don’t want to be Pregnant Me at wok. I want to be Work Me, but once people know, they’ll… oh, I don’t know, think of me as a woman when I just want them to think of me as good at what I do? This is all in my head, I know, but still causing anxiety.
My body’s changing. My husband is somewhat hilariously easy-going about life changes. “Is it weird to think of yourself as a dad,” I asked. “Yea… okay, not anymore. I’m used to it now.” In the blink of an eye, he’d adjusted; I’m the one having a hard time. I have this little round belly where my nice happy abs used to be. My shirt sticks to it rather unflatteringly. I can no longer button my jeans or sit upright with my legs crossed because the little round belly is hard and easily made uncomfortable. I feel dumpy and round, a vestige of my admittedly judgmental teenaged assessment that women built like me look fat and awkward when pregnant. (Sorry, hate even admitting that.)
So much to research. Here I thought I was ahead of the curve because I’d researched cribs and cloth diapers and read a bunch of pregnancy books before we started playing Baby Roulette. Nope! Now I have six months to read enough about baby-raising and sleep management and breastfeeding and parenting strategies to decide what I’ll keep and what gets tossed out of my brain.
I thought I’d have grown up a little differently (more?) by now. I thought I’d be more smiley, less grumpy; more even-keeled, less prone to drama; more settled in my skin, less anxious. But I’m me – Pregnant Me has an experimental alien body but undeniably the same brain and heart as Regular Me. *sigh* I’m admitting to disappointment. Will my baby be grumpy too? Can you have a smiley, happy baby if you’re not naturally smiley and happy?
But who wants to read about anxieties without some sort of plan? Not me! Time to put on my big girl panties.
So, a plan:
I will start reading about topics post-birth now. This will help remind me the discomfort isn’t just a stupid flu, but is the miracle of creating another human, AND give me to time to think, synthesize, and discuss with my husband.
I will pick a date to tell my boss about my knocked-up-ness. I will script the conversation so as not to be too much like my usual awkward self.
I will talk with my husband about our guest room plans and make lists for what must be done before my mom visits in (eek) 6-ish weeks. I will decide which of the gargantuan desks must be sold and post on Craigslist.
I will force myself to look at my body with wonder, not frustration, every day when I get out of the shower. (Note: I can’t help the looking as our bathroom has a huge mirror you look right into when you get out of the shower, but I can help the attitude in my head.)
I will start to dream about what our baby will look like, be like, act like, and like like. We’ll take him/ her to the park! No, wait, we can use our back property! We’ll explore and find bugs! And trees! And birds! And other awesomely yucky things! We’ll all lay on the floor and giggle! We’ll read books! And be nerdy!
I will glow, dammit, freaking glow with the bright-sidedness of my personality. Let the glowing begin!
Oh, right, and pictures. So, I never comb my hair, put on makeup, or think about the clothes I’m wearing (hi, work from home). This is definitely contributing to my I’m-dumpy sadness, so I’ve been swiping on a bit of makeup and blush. Let’s call this Step One. Steps Two and Three involve combing my hair and putting on decent clothes so that at least once a week, we can document this burgeoning belly as though it is awesome and not just alien-like. I had this idea that I’d put on a sports bra and take front and side pictures of my bare belly, but yea, not doing that after all. Now, to find a semi-clean place in the house to use as a backdrop….