Mamacita says: Women who had difficult labors probably hate me already right now, but I’ll go ahead and make it worse: I loved being pregnant. I felt GREAT.
Even when I was sitting still, doing nothing, I was still doing something wonderfully productive. I was euphoric. I felt very off-balance, but I’m so inclined that way anyway it wasn’t too bad. But mostly, I just felt good. The concept that after I had the baby, I would actually HAVE the baby, hadn’t sunken in yet.
I was scared of my babies. I knew I was too ignorant to deserve them, and I felt it was just a matter of time until my supreme ignorance caused me to do something with or to a baby that would toss me in the state pen for life, and deservedly so. I could hear the sentence in my head: YOU ARE FAR TOO STUPID TO GET TO HAVE BABIES!”
Somehow, I managed. WE managed. My kids are fantastic today, so maybe they didn’t suffer TOO much. Sigh.
But, between panic attacks, I had fun with my babies, too. I made zillions of mistakes and did tons of stupid things, but I had fun. I hope they did, too.
I know I was half-asleep through a lot of it, esp. anything that happened in the early morning hours, and I know I was an odd mommy, and I hated having to leave them and go to work but I had no choice, and I know I packed some really bizarre lunches for them to take to school, and I know it’s probably my fault that both of them are night owls like me, and I know I embarrassed them a lot (that was my job, after all) but I also know that the good things far outweighed the bad, even if I could remember all the bad, which I don’t, which is probably best for the perpetuation of mankind.
After all, they’re alive, and they’re still speaking to me. I call that a good sign. And, they’re curious about everything and they love to go to see live shows. They also both love music and enjoy living outside of the box. They’re both sensitive and tenderhearted and like to help people, and they enjoy being odd on purpose to make other people mad. I’m sure I have no idea where they learned THAT.
This ramble probably makes no sense, but I’m sitting here with a soul-splitting migraine, wishing I were tired enough to just get up and go to bed, and knowing that if I did I’d just lie there for hours and hours, feeling guilty because lately I’ve been wishing for my children’s childhoods back so I could do a better job this time, and knowing that with some things, well, even the gods can’t unscramble eggs. . . .
I also wish I could solve all the problems of the world with a wave of my hand, and knowing I can’t, and wishing I could, anyway, and wondering why some people have to be so cruel, and wondering how some people can be so upbeat in the face of unspeakable horror, and wishing I were thinner, and nicer, and more fun, and knowing I probably could be if only I weren’t also so lazy, well, I’ve got a massive migraine and these thoughts aren’t my fault. They’re not, they’re not, they’re not!
Maybe I should go to bed and get up early. I almost wish I had a pile of quizzes to grade. Life has all kinds of quizzes, doesn’t it. The quizzes in my briefcase usually have easy answers.
P.S. It would be lovely if there were a prize for the person who counts all the run-on sentences and comments with the number, but there isn’t one. Do it anyway if you’re the O/C type, and I’ll thank you, but that’s all you get.