Of Anger, Fear, Hope and Having This Baby

I have less than six weeks left of this pregnancy and realize I haven't said a word about it. Not a word or a picture or a single outward acknowledgment that this is actually happening. Silence, for me, is a sure sign of trouble. A big, neon, billboard-sized sign of trouble. You could say that coming to terms with this inevitable life event is still, even now, a work in progress, and may just be the hardest, internal struggle that has ever warred inside of me.

Here's the truth in all of its betraying and embarrassing glory: I'm freaking out. I had to put an ice pack on my eyes last night because they were so exhausted from crying. I'm already so overwhelmed, so tired, so spent and then every day, all day I have a baby moving inside of me, turning, flipping, kicking, reminding me that there is not only no end in sight, but there's even more responsibility, more exhaustion on its way.

It hasn't been this dreadful the entire time. I've actually been blessed with the best pregnancy I've ever had. Minimal sickness, minimal pain, minimal discomfort. Or maybe it's just that I've gotten better at coping with the demands of pregnancy and somewhere along the way acquired a decent amount of patience and tolerance. And there have been times during the last eight months, although few and probably under appreciated, when I've felt empowered, ready to take this new challenge on head first, drop kick it to the curb, head upturned in faith, sometimes actually allowing myself to believe that this is meant to be. But unfortunately, most of the time, I just think we didn't use a condom, and I feel like I'm on a train that's heading somewhere I don't want to go, I'm terrified to go, and I'm desperate to get off, and I want to jump, but I can't.

There's the anger. The anger, most of it admittedly irrational, that swells up so tightly in me sometimes that I want to throw something against a wall. Anger at God for this whole procreation thing and the role I'm meant to play in it, for the high expectations of motherhood. Anger at losing control of my body again, at having a vagina, at the pain that's coming, the grapefruit-sized tumor in my breast that is a daily burden. But mostly, and this is the hardest one to come to terms with in a mature and honest way, anger at myself for letting this happen and then not having the maturity or faith to embrace it.

And then there's the fear, the choking, paralyzing fear that at its worst makes me hyperventilate and actually labor for regular breath. Fear of so many things..... of losing my mind, losing my ambitions, losing my own place in this world, losing my love for God and others because I just won't have enough to go around. Fear of not being able to meet all of my children's' needs, of becoming resentful, of yelling, of accidentally tucking my skirt into my undies and walking around in public, again, of not caring enough that I start making Top Ramen for dinner, of never again having a moment to myself or with Mark, of never having fun, of never being invited over to other people's houses, of not being smart enough, patient enough, resourceful enough, good enough.

And really, how did a woman who at one point in her life didn't even want children and then consented to one or two, end up with five? I don't know, but does it really matter now? I just hope that one day, I'll be able to say that I did it and it was hard, the hardest thing ever, but it was wonderful too, and I'll be changed in ways that would surprise me to even consider now. And I will have let go of my vanities and resentments and jealousies for the way it was supposed to go down but didn't. And I hope the children, my five beautiful children, when we're on the other side of this mountain, will forgive me for the mistakes I will have surely made and will still love me and love each other and that somehow I will have led them over safely.

That's what I hope for anyway.