I spent much of last night wide awake, monitoring contractions I knew were Braxton-Hicks but with frequency just on the cusp of needing to call. I’ve struggled with anxiety, with finding my inner pregnancy goddess, with not becoming overwhelmed by my usual self, and I’ve mostly succeeded at keeping the worries at bay, but people, I do not want this little dude to come out. Now.
Right. I do not want this little dude to come out now. Ahem.
I took today off to rest, an excuse that sounds like total bullshit to me. I apologized to my staff, swore to my boss that this was no big deal, and logged off full of guilt. My choosing to spawn has directly affected my team already and I haven’t yet begun my planned 10 week disappearance.
But what can you do? I need my son to have another month to grow, need myself to have another month to settle. I’m not ready!
I wrote a premarital post that was quite popular titled something like, “Scared? Hell, yes. But scared isn’t panicked.” I’m there again, except teetering on the edge of panic and holding my breath so as not to fall.
So I’ll go build something or pack something or make a list or five, concentrate on stuff so as not to fall prey to the danger of a quiet mind. Soon, perhaps even tomorrow, I’ll take a shaky breath and face every fear until I find some semblance of peace, even if resolution can only be, “it’ll be okay. Somehow.”
I’ll trust in my process, fucked up though it may be, and know that not being all rainbows and butterflies is just how I roll; joy can still come later, often just in time.