I am just over halfway through this third pregnancy. When the baby is born Levi will be three and a half, and LJ will be 25 months.
Yes, sometimes I cry alone in my shower and wonder what the blurg we are thinking having a third kid.
Then I feel guilty that I’m acting so desperately selfish when this is something we’ve wanted for our family from the first time we ever dreamt up our imaginary family of rugrats that look like their dad and dance like their mama.
Then my two kids hug, help each other and laugh and dance at the table and I forget my guilt. I feel so happy I am already pregnant and I’m so enthralled with the thought of adding another little person into the mix.
The truth is I find babies to be my personal hardest time as a mom. I get overwhelmed when I can’t calm their crying, frustrated when I don’t know what they need, desperate to pluck ‘me time’ wherever I can squeeze it. It is the constant ‘I should be doing this or that’ when I’m nursing a baby all hours of the day and night that shuts me down fast. Then cue the blanket of shame I toss on top of it all to keep these emotions a concealed because ‘moms shouldn’t feel this way’.
This time I’m prepping myself for a different scenario. I mean, any baby should be easier than our wonderfully complicated cheeky LJ. Slowly it’s feeling less like a pending hostage situation and more like what it should be… a gift of love. A tiny piece of me and my husband that needs me to be tireless, selfless and ready to lactate on command.
As I hold friend’s babies, see fellow moms with swelling bellies, think about adding to our family, talk about who this one will be – – I am finally feeling that sentiment people talk about. I used to get sore and clammy thinking about meeting the physical demands of a newborn. These thoughts are being nudged out by the image of that tiny little smushed face drooling on my shoulder and trying to keep excited little hands from mauling their new baby sibling. Then I cry, because I’m pregnant and it’s a safe place to carb load and time to dump all my mushy emotions into without reason or concession.
Though maybe the occasional ‘Sorry I’m a blubbering bag of reckless emotions’ card to the hubby wouldn’t hurt at this point.
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