it all becomes real
when he can’t understand why
things are different
It’s going to be hard. Harder than I ever let myself think or imagine or even plan for. I see it in his eyes, his expressions, his new ways of trying to get my attention… the Wee One is in for a dose of "holy shit my world is upside down" and I think it’s already started.
Our relationship is growing stronger – almost fiercer – as my belly grows larger. The Wee One hugs me harder now, and he’s not angry when I don’t get on the floor to play with him, he seems… resigned… to it.
This morning, for the first time since the first week of school, he cried when I dropped him off at his classroom. He said he didn’t get to spend enough time with me this morning. And his crying wasn’t the wailing, flailing freak out it was when he was scared of school, it was quiet… solemn… sad. And, oh, does that break my heart into a million tiny pieces.
I’ve started to wonder how I could do this to him? How could I cause such change and uncertainty in his life? I’ve started to wonder how could I do this to another child? How can this boundless, protective, doting love be shared equally? Logically, I know it must be possible. I know that people have babies everyday and they find a capacity to love all of their children in equivalent and infinite ways. I know that when my sister was born and I was four years old, my world didn’t end. I didn’t feel less loved or suddenly alienated.
But logic be damned. Right now, emotionally… emotionally I am a disaster area. I need caution tape and orange cones carefully placed around me. At every turn I worry that I’m letting the Wee One down, that it’s not that I can’t do everything for him that I’ve always done, it’s that I somehow just don’t anymore. I mean, I could get on all fours and play with him on the carpet. I could set the computer down, say no to another viewing of Zoboomafoo, and kick a ball around the backyard with him. I could endeavor to cook him something to eat other than pasta or peanut butter (even though he won’t actually eat anything other than pasta or peanut butter). But I don’t.
I feel like I’m using my giant belly as an excuse to be less of a mom. And that sounds so ironic and ridiculous, I know. But could it be so ridiculous that it’s true? I know I need to rest, to keep my feet up, to do what I can to prevent the bed rest and pre-term labor and PIH I had when I was pregnant with him, but…. but…. but….
He cried at school. He tells me he loves me about a thousand times a day so that he can hear me say it back. When we watch TV he sits in the chair right next to me even though there’s not enough room. And though I don’t think any of this is conscious on his part, I know his subconscious already feels this baby coming. His subconscious is preparing itself as the Mack truck of Little Sister zooms towards us.
And there has to be something I can do to soften the blow. But I don’t know what. We talk about babies and how special big brothers are. We talk about how smart he is and how he’ll be able to teach his sister all the cool things he knows. The whole family is taking a one day, "sibling course" in a few weeks where we’ll all get a tour of the hospital’s maternity ward, and he’ll learn how to diaper his favorite stuffed monkey.
Yet I still worry about the rug being pulled out from under him. I guess it’s inevitable. And he’ll be unhappy, or confused, or displeased, or not cool with it. And then he’ll adjust. But it hurts me to know I hurt him. And I like to think I’m not doing it on purpose. But the pregnancy was purposeful. The decision to grow the family was purposeful. My choices to sit in my chair and not stagger to the floor to play Lincoln Logs are purposeful. But not malicious. It seems silly to even point that out, but I feel like I have to. I feel this overwhelming guilt to confess that I’m not a super mom right now.
And where the guilt comes from, I don’t know. I guess it’s just part of the mommy thing. But I need him to know that even if I sit in a chair all day and only half-assed play dinosaurs with him, it’s not because I love him any less. I guess I could just tell him that (without the "ass" part) and see what he says. When he writes his tell-all memoir in 20 years, I’ll find out if the straightforward approach worked.
Oh man, forget about pimps. It’s hard out here for a mama.
