She didn’t care that she wasn’t off with some man from Peoria who wore suits and sold hairbrushes door-to-door. She had the bug that afflicts every part of you, especially your reason. It makes you dream of babies crying out for you in the night.
— from The Book of Ruth, by Jane Hamilton
Lately, I’ve had babies on the brain. Like, dreaming about them practically every night, noticing pregnant women everywhere I go, reading blogs by women who are pregnant or who write about their children. It’s bizarre.
Being a mother is the one thing I’ve always known, for sure, I wanted to be. I watched my friends and my brother get married and have children, and I wondered when it might happen for me, but I never really felt the “clock ticking,” as it were, until recently. I guess that’s what this is.
I long to be pregnant. And longing is precisely the right word to describe the feeling, I think. It’s nearly a physical yearning, and it floors me every time it hits. I touch my stomach and imagine what I’d look like 8 months pregnant, how it would feel to have a tiny human being growing inside there, how completely my life would change the second I heard that first cry.
But I worry, too. I worry about what kind of mother I’ll be, whether I’ll mellow out between now and the time my kid is a juice-spilling, sticky tornado of energy, whether I’ll be able to let go of my control-freak tendencies and raise healthy, well-adjusted kids, whether they’ll be out-of-control teens, and if they’ll hate me.
I long to be pregnant, but the idea of actually caring for a tiny person who needs all of me — even with the man I love beside me — seems unbearable, undoable, impossible. And that makes me wonder if I’ll ever really be ready, and the idea that I might never be scares me.
Of course, as usual, I’m WAY ahead of myself, so I’ll just run and double check that I took my birth control pill this morning and move on!