I've been desperate to have a baby for about three years. When the biological alarm clock finally went off, it did it with a vengeance and when Chris and I decided to wait a little longer to start trying I thought my intestines were going to fall right out of my body. And then we did start trying, and it was hard. My lazy ass ovaries refused to cooperate. So there were doctors who were unable to find anything wrong and then a particularly horrid summer where having a baby seemed like the stupidest idea I had ever come up with and then out of what seemed like nowhere a little pink line. Two little pink lines actually. I was thrilled. And terrified.
It's hard to describe how I feel about this baby. It isn't love, exactly, although I'm sure it will be once I meet her. It's more the feeling that nothing I have ever done or ever will do will be more important. I can't wait to see her, to meet her and feed her and bathe her and change her diapers and walk her around the living room for hours when she cries and see her learn to crawl and walk and talk and read and write and dance and drive. I want this baby. I adore her. I want to spend the rest of my life caring for and worrying about her.
But sometimes, I wonder why. Sometimes, it all seems like a colossal pain in the ass and I wonder why I wanted this in the first place and whether I really want it now. I think about having a screaming toddler or a mouthy, sullen teenager. About driving to ballet class and soccer practice and having my house always a mess with crayon on the wall and juice stains on the couch. I think about how I will probably be giving up a job that, while it does not fulfill my soul, I am very good at and for which I am well compensated and I think about how long it will take me to start over and work my way back up. I think about not being able to go out to dinner or a movie whenever we feel like it because we won't have anybody to watch the kid and probably won't be able to afford it anyway. I think about all the diapers and all the laundry and all the hours reviewing spelling words and trying to teach her algebra and how I really can think of lots of ways I would rather spend my time.
I resent all of these things, and then I hate myself for thinking them. But I wonder, do I really want this? Am I really ready to make all these sacrifices? Did I really want to give up so much of what I have to take on this new thing that I cannot yet fully understand or appreciate or anticipate?
Yes. I'm terrified, but yes. I question it, but yes. I don't fully understand why I want it, but yes.