Here's the thing: I'm not exactly excited about having a baby.
That's what people keep asking me—“Baby is coming soon! Are you excited?”
I’m not. Not exactly.
It’s something like being at base camp, looking up to a cloud-lost summit, thinking, “Woah, I can’t wait to get up there, but have no clue what it’ll be like once I actually start kicking in my crampons.”
10 days. A little over a week. That’s how long we have to go. Assuming it’s not sooner. Or later. And at this point, it still feels mostly theoretical to me. Sure, I can see A—‘s hugeness and feel the fetus twitch and fuss in there.
But it’s like connecting to someone’s sore shoulder. Pain as an idea makes sense to you, but you’re not feeling their pain, so it’s not a reality. Until you throw out a shoulder of your own.
These are terrible metaphors.
Really, what it goes back to is that I’m not excited. I can’t wait, for sure. But the nerves I have are more focused on:
- Will everything go alright?
- Will she be healthy?
- Will she even be a she?
- Will nature kick in and help us do what we need to care for her properly?
- How loud will her cries be and how long will they last?
- What will she look like?
- Will she be happy?
- What if she hates us?
- How will she turn out?
I'm sick with questions.
What I’m waiting for is to have her in my arms. That’s when the questions won’t matter, when they’ll start answering themselves organically.
It’s the only thing that’ll quiet my mind. The way I’ll finally become excited.