I’m sneak attacking my own brain. That’s right, you heard
correctly. I find myself saying things to myself and swaying me to do things I
don’t understand. Here’s what’s happening, the husband and I have been
discussing that whole kid business. You know, first comes love, then comes
marriage, then comes a combination of Tim and Leila in a baby carriage. Having
kids FREAKS ME OUT. It’s not that I don’t want them it’s that I have a fear
(probably from watching too many horror films) that my child will try to kill
me. I mean like I’ll wake up in the middle of the night and there is the fruit
of my loins standing over me with a kitchen knife and some kind of devilish
strength to plunge that thing into my chest. Wish I was kidding.
Besides my abnormal fear, I’m also just scared of having
them, carrying a baby (both internally and externally), getting pregnant, not
dropping the baby on its head, having something so very dependent on me that I
can’t leave it alone. It’s a life changer and I know it will be enriching and I
know I will love it more than I thought possible but I’m looking from the
outside in and it looks, well, like a horror film. Weight gain, hemorrhoids,
poop, vomit, no sleep, exhaustion, diseases, SIDS, sciatica, complications - it
looks TERRIFYING.
That being said, there is a war going on inside of me. While
I have the crippling fear, something else is moving in the mist. I’ve started
on prenatals. I find myself taking mental notes of random things. For instance,
I almost bought clothes because “they would be great for when I’m knocked up.”
I have come up with recipes that I have filed away in my brain as “kid-friendly.”
I made up a recipe this morning for breakfast and it dawned on me that I
started rationalizing that this would be great for when Tim and I have kids and
they get all picky and don’t want waffles or cereal or pancakes for breakfast
and instead of backhanding them and being put in jail I could make them this
dish. I’ve even bought a pair of baby shoes and stashed them away for “when it’s
time.”
I’ve always been good with kids, I usually enjoy their
company more than adults, it’s why I’m a good babysitter, it’s why when I see
and infant I know exactly how to hold it, it’s why I tend to mother my friends
when they’re sick or had a rough day and need a hug and some cookies (aka
wine).
My mentality since I was young has always been – just because
I would make a great mom doesn’t mean I have to be one. However, now I find
that as I’m slowly, very slowly, getting used to the idea I can’t stop planning
my future with kids. Some days I crave them, other days I sit back with a beer
and think my life is rad, why change a thing. That gorilla, that movement, that
other dimensional monster in the mist that is churning and leisurely beating
back the fear is starting to win me over and as I chew my prenatal gummies
(pills are for chumps), I’ve accepted the fact that I am destined to be a
mommy, whether I know it or not. My poor, poor children.
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