I think I’ve talked before about the horrible Doom’s Day advice I’ve gotten since I learned about the Wee One coming, advice that fit comfortably into my jacked ideas of motherhood.
But then there’s this. After I started feeling her and I began to get excited about her, I started hoping that maybe it would be more like this.
When I was pregnant, everyone was all about “warning” me about what was coming next. I walked around much of those ten (let’s face it, pregnancy is ten, not nine, months) absolutely terrified. The warnings flew at me from every angle — in the checkout line at Target, on the street, slipping my shoes on and walking out of the yoga studio. Warnings, warnings everywhere about what was to come — from the excruciating, mind-numbing pain of childbirth to the shell of my former self I was about to become once I had her. There were times I felt like a prisoner on death row, trying to force myself to enjoy some tiny luxury despite my size and discomfort, because if you asked around, apparently my petty joys would be ending pretty soon!
“Enjoy your husband now — you’ll be so consumed by the baby you won’t spend any time alone together…
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