I had a wake up call last week.
As in, wake up and pee on a stick because I thought I might be pregnant.
I'll suspend the suspense by telling you now. I am not pregnant.
But for a weekend, there was that doubt and I was faced with facing the possibility of adding another human to our brood.
I thought and thought and thought.
I went through all of the "BUT WE'RE NOT READY!" exclamations that were signaling like flaming giant flares in my mind. All but one were quickly answered.
Katelyn is still a baby! Well, not really. I mean, last Sunday she went to nursery (albeit three months early) and everyday she acts more like a grown child than a squirming infant. Her latest act of adorableness is to carry around a baby doll and feed it and kiss it and then insist that I kiss it as well. (Does this make me a grandmother?) I have no doubt that Kate will make an excellent big sister.
We don't have enough money! This is true but we also don't have enough money for one baby and we seem to be surviving. Things work out, the chips fall into place, and somehow, at the end of the month, the bills are paid and there is food on the table. Also, we have a solid support system that extends like branches on a huge family tree. (Who said money doesn't grow on trees?) Really, for the first several months, we don't even need to pay to feed it. I'm a walking, talking, mooing milk dispenser.
Babies are a lot of work! True again but that ship sailed two years ago when Katelyn announced she was on her way and, truth be told, I wouldn't have it any other way.
There was only one drawback that I just couldn't mentally maneuver. I am too fat to be having a baby.
Let me be clear. I was not that newly pregnant woman who had a meltdown over my expanding belly and the stretch marks that were creeping across it. I got my first stretch marks in middle school. I figured the new ones would just blend in with the mosaic of old stuff. I didn't once lament that I would never get my body back. That was another battle that had already been lost. If I wanted to get my body back, I would have to hop into a time machine set for the early 2000s. Once again, I figured this newly created fetus could do her worst and I would still pretty much look the same.
No. I worried about things like gestational diabetes and the baby not having enough room in there because of all the preexisting fat. I worried that my health would suffer because of my weight, or worse, that hers would. Obesity is a frightening word. (Say it to yourself a few times in a menacing tone. Obesity. OBESITY!!!) It's not a good thing to hear in conjunction with anyone's health, let alone a one ounce fetus. I worried that there would be complications in the delivery. I worried about the delivery in general but it seemed like carrying around an extra hundred pounds wouldn't make things any easier.
I worried about more emotional fears as well. What if I never lose the weight and she learns my evil fat ways and becomes like one of those kids on Maury that eats an entire pizza for lunch and washes it down with a liter of Dr. Pepper? What if she's a runner (she is) and I can't find the energy to keep up (I can't)? What if I can't fit in with the other moms because they think I'm fat and lazy? What if I never lose the weight?
As I spent the weekend pondering another pregnancy, the same familiar fears swirled around my brain. When I found out I wasn't pregnant I was relieved and sad at the same time. I was relieved because I really am too fat to be pregnant and I was sad because I was relieved and, to be honest, the thought of a brand new sweet smelling squirming infant sounded kind of, well, sweet.
I don't want this to be an issue forever. I don't want it to be an issue right now. I'm not saying I'm planning on adding to my sector the population quite yet but I don't want to be freaked out if I happen to be surprised with a wonderful gift. It was kind of a sad realization but definitely a wake up call.
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