I have had roughly 437 ideas for blog posts since my last post in November. None have come to fruition. I've thought about writing about "green" baby products, pros and cons of various baby slings or parenting philosophies, or my take on the whole "anti-vax" debacle. I could have written some pretty funny posts about our Bradley Method natural birthing class, or my maniacal nesting-induced stuff-purging and organization projects. I've thought about writing about my genuine surprise that I am not more anxious than I am, and that I do not hate the extra-plush body that I'm walking around in for this season. I haven't written any of it.
The truth is, whether it be hormone related or just the fact that this is a sensitive and thoroughly new time and space for me, I have not been able to bear the idea of feedback, whether positive or negative, about the twists and turns we have chosen on this path. I physically cringe at the thought of reading any affirmations or skepticism or criticism. "You'll be great! You are going to be awesome parents!" feels just as scary as "Good luck with that co-sleeper. I hope you do better than we did!" or "You are a lunatic for trying cloth diapers", etc. Positive feedback hits my thin and stretch-marked skin as pressure and expectation. Skepticism and criticism are scalding and send my brain into a tailspin of self-doubt. Thankfully, I haven't really encountered any direct, personal criticism or skepticism, but I chalk that up to keep most of my opinions and our parenting plans out of the spotlight of the internet. And while part of me feels pleased with the sweet affirmations of my friends and family, another, shakier part freaks out with wondering whether we can live up to the hopes and expectations of others, or ourselves. We can't, of course.
I've already endured about seven months of "Let me tell you about my harrowing, near-death birth experience" stories, which have almost completely unraveled me on any given day. Don't get me wrong, I am thankful for all the experienced momma-friends who are brave and real and who do not sugar coat the hard stuff. I'm grateful for the advice and suggestions and wisdom they hand down, and I am eternally grateful for their promises to help me navigate the coming months. But there's something about writing from this trembling pregnant place of "doing the best we can with the information we have" for the entire interweb to read and, let's just say it, judge, that has me camped out in my safe little corner, stockpiling books and articles and notes from conversations with friends, keeping my opinions to myself.
A dear friend of mine flew under the radar for almost the entirety of her first pregnancy. She rarely returned phone calls, and didn't reach out to make plans for lunches or coffees or walks by the lake that we had enjoyed together for years. When she did call or text, we'd meet up briefly and she didn't say much. After her son was born, she told me that she had felt an intense self-protective quietude during her pregnancy, and spent a lot of time thinking and praying and reading and just "being pregnant" with her baby. I have not been anywhere near that introspective or meditative, but I finally understand the impulse to draw inward and just marvel. I'm too extroverted to go completely radio-silent, but I am much more selective with what I share and what I keep to myself.
The reality is, Les and I are imperfect, broken, excited, naive, first-time-parents-to-be. We're going to screw up. We're going to do things we regret. There will be wonder and awe and joy and tears and all of that. All of it. We'll be about as amazing as any parents who try to approach this adventure humbly, with our eyes fixed on Grace, who muddle through the best they can. Maybe once the navel-gazing season is over, I'll feel braver about writing more from my heart. For now, please accept this as an admittance of not-so-bravery on the "being authentic/putting your feelings out there" blogging front. There is a lot brewing over here, but I'm keeping most of it to myself for now.
