I had a midwife check-up about a week ago, a check-up that went so well it lasted fifteen minutes.
“Any questions?” Nope. I’m good.
“Any problems?” Just the usual – heartburn, indigestion, headaches when I don’t drink enough water. I’m good, thanks.
“Anything?” Nope. Still a little worried about birth, of course, and managing a (needy, demanding, heart-sucking) creature addition to our family. But nothing unusual. I’m good.
Blood pressure was nice and low, the kid’s heart thumped just like it should, and out the door I went.
For the first time, it struck me – really nailed me in the gut – how lucky I am, how blessed we are. (I know, I know, “blessed” gives non-religious people the heebie jeebies if they’re not. I don’t mean it religiously, I mean it in the “highly favored or fortunate” meaning of the definition.)
My pregnancy has gone really well. Sure, I don’t enjoy being pregnant. I still can’t eat most of my favorite things. I’m certain the discomforts will only increase.
But in the end, we’ll have a baby, one who by all accounts is growing and acting just like he should. The idea of a few cells turning into living, breathing creature is more than I can bear, forcing me to take deep breaths and look around in awe. And that we get this little miracle of life just for getting lucky is, well, mind-blowing.
My mind is blown. Blown!
So, hey, our house is still a mess. My parents are coming to visit and we’ll spend the weekend frantically shoving crap into closets to make the place presentable, then mess it all up in a day or two. My to-do list has items like “wash cat hair off sheets in guest bedroom” and “de-muck the office desk and move the extra furniture… somewhere (where?).”
Our pets are still… themselves. The dogs are crashed on the couch with a couple of cats sacked out on top of them. Some Dog ate all of the cat treats and Some Cat pulled a coat down from the coat rack and made a little nest in it. Everyone needs a bath before my mom shows up and nobody likes the idea.
And us? Well, we’re flawed. I struggle to manage my temper and anxiety while my husband will remain blissfully confident about everything until the force of reality slams into him. We’ll fight when the stress gets overwhelming. We’ll disagree on how to discipline and when to give in and every other thing that comes up.
My point is not to brag, merely to put the gut punch of awareness into words. I get it, how lucky we are.
And I’m scared. I’m notorious for not accepting things that come easily. I met my husband and spent six blissful months in a bubble, all the while looking for the problems I couldn’t seem to find. Then when things got too good, I screwed them up by freaking out. This is my thing.
Since I don’t want to screw up a generally good experience with, well, being me, I’m trying really hard not to lose my shit. Sometimes I fail, then I get back on the wagon. Sometimes I succeed and barely notice. Most of the time, I vacillate between the two, until I’m driving down the road and the breath gets sucked out of me when I realize how well things are going… and that I need to be vigilant.
And breathe. That this little dude kicks me at the most random of moments certainly helps distract me from feeling plump.