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Weeks 31 to 32
A Large Dose of Ambivalence
I just re-read my first journal entry. “Welcome to another round of ambivalence,” I wrote, more than 32 weeks ago. As my due date grows near and the reality of having another baby sinks in, I seem to be more dubious than ever.
"Aren’t you so incredibly excited?" people ask, their own anticipation spread wide across their faces. Sort of. Sometimes. Not really. In theory. I know I’m supposed to say "yes"--I’m supposed to feel thrilled. Millions of women try in vain to have children and I never lose sight of how fortunate I am. Still, all of that said, I seem to feel fear and dread as powerfully as I do enthusiasm.
First, the fear. Fear that something is wrong with the baby. That he’ll be born with a severe mental or physical impairment. Or that he won’t, and in the months that ensue, one will present itself. I have watched some children in my neighborhood grow out of their strollers and right into wheelchairs, their hands and heads off kilter due to Cerebral Palsy, I suspect, or the consequences of some other accident at birth. No doubt their mothers underwent every prenatal test available and still their child was born disabled. I’ve seen a classmate in Henry’s preschool—white as a sheet with a tiny, frail head—recover from his seventh major surgery, wean himself from a feeding tube to a straw at age 4 and learn his first words shortly thereafter. A colleague’s middle child had febrile seizures so severe that nine years later, she is still in diapers. Another’s youngest son, now 11, is catastrophically autistic, appeased only by Burger King French fries and Thomas the Tank Engine videos. I don’t know how these parents cope with the loss, the terror, and the physical, psychological, and financial demands. I’m just not strong enough to tackle something so devastating. The idea of it catapults me into near paralysis. I lie awake all night, obediently on my left side, fretting that I have made the biggest mistake of my life.
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Then, the dread, the all-nighters, the spousal feuds, the loss of my special oneness with Henry, the inconsolable screaming infant, the terrible twos, potty training troubles...all the run-of-the-mill, blessed parts of raising a new little person, the immense amounts of paraphernalia required to leave the house (stroller/car seat, baby carrier, breast pump supplies, wet wipes, diapers, fresh clothes, burping cloth, changing pad, milk, teething ring, toys). I think these things, admit them on paper, and feel like a terrible person.
But then there are fleeting peeks at joy. We set up the crib and I picture a cooing infant inside. We washed all the newborn clothes and I imagine a little person snuggling in their soft fabrics. I looked at Henry’s baby pictures and recalled the inexplicable wonder I felt holding a five-pound, eight-ounce human being in my palms. I simply need to spend time with these thoughts, feel them in my sense memory, and keep the faith that whomever I’m giving birth to will quickly become someone I can’t imagine my life without.
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