in a spat of brutal honesty the other day i sent off an email to an old friend about this whole 'me being pregant' thing. as soon as i sent it remorse immediately sunk in: i was sure she would be now praying for the poor child i will be giving birth to in 7 months. it was an email that revealed how i don't feel ready, how bizaare and freaky i think the miracle of creating a life in your womb is, and how i...i wished i wasn't pregnant. i needed to feel understood and this particular friend is not only the non-judgemental type but she also provided just enough segway for me to launch into it. but it wasn't the thought of being the center for someone's disapproval that scared me, it was what i had shared that made me shake in my boots. the truth.
then last night i had this dream that i was swinging on a swing set while holding my child. and i remember feeling this extreme love at feeling my child's arm hold onto me as it lay in my lap. i woke up this morning with a love for my child for the first time. it's pretty awesome.
3 comments:
Missie you and Jon are going to be awesome parents. The amount of love that you have inside you is larger, warmer, bigger than the sun. That child is going to have so much love poured over it by you guys and all your family and friends... especially ME!
Aunt Michelle
After reading your post, I'd really love to show you the following, perhaps a kindred spirit in the natural starting-a-new-family fear. Dooce writes a monthly letter to her daughter and this link is to one of my favorites. I think that writing about it all, the fear, the joy, the things you don't yet know, even when you're afraid to reveal it all, is probably therapeutic for her and could be for you as well. I'm not worried about you guys. :) I have full faith that you'll be stunning parents. http://www.dooce.com/archives/daily/02_03_2005.html
thanks for the link L. that sweet ode made me cry. but then again almost anything and everything relating to children or babies or things that start with the letter P brings me to tears. it's the hormones, dear god.
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