I was really good at being pregnant. I adored that belly and I loved my babies.
And I loved my plan.
And my plan was working. Three. Done by thirty. Concise. Succinct. Beautiful. But what if my plan wasn't the "divine plan" and heaven thought I should add to my horde?
I have spent the last three weeks in a cloudy fear that I have become a statistic -- one of the 1% -- betrayed by bodies we thought were controlled by modern medicine.
(Please don't let me be pregnant...please don't let me be pregnant...oh, dear God, please don't let me be pregnant...)
As I was dropping him off for work this week, he mumbled all melancholy and afraid, words dripping blue, "I sure hope you're not pregnant..."
This is my most selfish truth:
1. I want Noa to be my baby. I want to end on the girl who dollops the world with her sweetness everywhere she steps. I don't want to impose a crib in her bedroom or a crunch on her time with me. She is my forever baby -- I don't want anything taking that away.
2. I don't want to steal anything from Liam -- not time or patience or grace... wouldn't a baby steal every bit of what I had left and leave him hanging like an unpaired sock in the laundry? Wouldn't he snap somehow, anger boiling over into a jealous rage that leaves a Sharpie rebellion smeared across the bedroom wall I so lovingly painted?
3. I want to notice Zander making that transition into adolescence -- I want to mold him and form him and grow him up right with my full attention. I don't want to be distracted by diapers and breastfeeding and Liam getting into trouble just to get me to notice him and Noa begging and crocodile tear'ing just so I'll take five minutes for a tea party and cleaning toilets and laundry and onesies and crying my own snot-boiling tears because I just. can't. take. another. minute. And suddenly he'll be this fumbling adult and I'll have missed the whole thing by the time I get that surprise baby on the school bus for his first day of kindergarten in five years.
4. Those jeans that finally fit me.
5. I want to shower every single day -- not just because I have to do it to get the vomit smell out of my hair -- for as long as I please without interruption, without guilt, without fear of what could happen in the measly five minutes I have the door closed.
6. I like peeing all by myself.
7. All the good names have been taken by Brangelina.
8. I want to write and garden and decorate and craft and play the piano and read awful vampire/zombie novels and rearrange my furniture and go for long walks on the beach and raise chickens and sleep in and travel to Italy and watch birds and bake pies and debate the merits of Jian Ghomeshi and solve homelessness and play shows in coffee houses and join a writer's group.
10. Giving birth is gross. (Sure, it's beautiful and wonderful and blah, blah, blah -- IT'S STILL DISGUSTING!!! -- and it HURTS and after you've mentally accepted (vowed) to never do it again you just can't wrap your head around the very real possibility of having to do it again and so doing is a sure-fire ticket to the crazy floor.)
I am guilty.
I am an awful, terrible, SELFISH woman.
But I love my three and I don't want to love more than that.
And so the moment came to prove that indeed, I need only love three and I was the fool in the ladies room -- arms raised to heaven in a victorious hallelujah -- I'm high fiving a million angels!
I text him, all caps: NOT PREGNANT!!!!!
And his response says it all: Phew!
First posted over here
Alanna Rusnak writes honest blog posts reflecting her world as a mother of three, wife of one, employee of a church, and a lover of beauty over at SelfBinding Retrospect
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