Growing up, I never envisioned myself walking through the streets with a set number of children in tow. While I always assumed I would be a mother at some point, there was never a predetermined family size floating around inside my head. Now that I am pregnant with our second child, two sounds like a nice and manageable number for our family but who knows how we will feel three or four years from now? After all, as Sean Connery learned, never say never again. But I’ll tell you – this round of with-child has knocked me on my feet more times than I care to count, broken far too many capillaries on my face (thank goodness for full-coverage make-up), and is causing me to keep the schedule of an 88-year-old nursing home resident.
Don’t get me wrong – I am absolutely thrilled to be pregnant. But because this pregnancy has unleashed sickness with the ferocity of an untrained bulldog, a new emotion has pushed its way in – guilt. And the guilt is so overwhelming at times that I am convinced that being pregnant again in the future will be detrimental to Weston and this baby. I realize how over-dramatic these hormones are making me but let’s just say that my mom-o-confiedence meter is pointing at an all time low. Ever since learning I was pregnant on the first of November, I can’t help but feel guilty about my lack of hands-on involvement with the little guy. While he is taking advantage of the extra cuddle opportunities, I know he is disappointed that I am unable to engage with him like I did pre-pregnancy.
It’s not that I think me being pregnant is going to cause Weston to get a face tattoo anytime soon or engage in risk-taking behaviors beyond jumping from the couch to the ottoman. But the fact is that I am not currently the mother I wish to be due to factors beyond my control. I am now well-established in the second trimester and I think the clouds are beginning to part – for the little guy’s sake, I hope this to be true. Please let it be true.