It’s taken me a while to write this blog post and I’m still not sure if I should publish it or not, so do me a favor if you read this and comment gently.
I am feeling very down and yes it could be the crazy hormones but it doesn’t make much difference what the catalyst is when you’re living through the drama.
I feel like this baby that’s growing and kicking and rolling around in my belly is nothing more than an inconvenience. No one is excited about it coming, most people don’t even know when it’s due, including my husband, the father, who keeps messing up the date even though it’s scheduled to be c-sected that day so it’s not like a flexible due date!
When our first was due, there were parades, people throwing rose petals at my feet and everything. My father in law cried with joy, we had a baby shower (as awkward as it was), people came to see us in the hospital. We researched for hours and registered for the very best of everything, we took birthing classes and toured the hospital. I designed, painted and decorated the nursery and bought a teddy bear from Harrods. Our son had the best of everything, a crib with an expensive brand crest emblazoned on to it and a wardrobe full of new clean clothes to last him months.
I’ve spent the last few months scouring Craigslist and consignment stores for this baby. Her furniture was tied to a roof and put together by us. Its flimsy and has warning stickers that won’t peel off. She has a wardrobe that consists of old blue pajamas and corduroy overalls. Her room was painted the wrong color, her curtains were taken from an old condo and the boxes of books from our move still sit in there with nowhere else to go.
I have doctors appointments every week but I go by myself this time. Even the doctor yelled, “no need to reschedule, she know what shes doing” as she ran past me on her way to deliver a baby in lieu of our appointment. There’s no plans for a hospital tour or a shower, no registry. There’s not even the dollar store gift equivalent of the wiffle bat that my husband bought our son last time I was pregnant.
While our first nursery was completed three months before the arrival, I’ve given up on this one. I’ve worked hard enough at getting excited; I’ve sewed dresses and diapers and toys. I’ve ordered a stuffed animal from England and spray painted shelves, I’ve lugged this stomach around with all of the joyous midnight cramps, the heartburn and hemorrhoids and I’ve been alone the whole time. The stuffed bunny was forgotten and left in England, I’ve run out of material for the bedding I planned, and the shelf is still on the garage floor. No one has noticed.
The person that seems to pay the most attention is our neighbor, whose name may be Jen, but I’m not entirely sure. She’s given me hand me downs, dresses and shoes, talked to me about the baby and even asked how I’m coping. We only moved in three months ago!
So why should I bother? Isn’t it enough that I take my multivitamin every day, that I take her to her appointments and that I accept my newly formed teletubbie figure? I’ll go through the c-section, the 2 weeks of not picking up my son while he gets progressively more mad at me and closer to our nanny, the bleeding nipples and the sleepless nights. I’ll sacrifice my career and I’ll love this child unconditionally, all the while knowing that one day she’ll manipulate me and go running to her daddy, who will, at that point but not now, give her anything she wants.
But for now, I think I’ll just go to bed and dream about a flat stomach, a happy baby sleeping in an expensive stroller as I walk through the rose petal laden park with my perfectly manicured, unswollen feet.
Goodnight baby, good night stupid f*#%ing moon!