My Eternal Self-Doubt

Incrediboy has a cold. When I went to get him from his crib Saturday, he greeted me in his customary way by excitedly calling out “Mamma!”– but with his nose stuffed up, it just came out as a slightly listless, “Bahbah!”

It was the most pitiful thing. And it made my heart practically bubble over like a root beer float.

Not long ago, I didn’t think I wanted children. Not because I disliked them – but because I didn’t want to sacrifice the years and tears required for raising them. I had things to do, places to be, and miles to go – none of which allowed for the albatross of parenthood.

A busy, flitting butterfly –
Always moving, that was I.

Okay, so it’s no mystery why I’m not a poet by profession. (shrug).

The hub has always wanted children, when the time would be right. That time never arrived until I did – but the time for me trailed further behind. I pulled out every excuse I could. First, I exclaimed we couldn’t take a little baby out on a 70 mph, skipping like a flat rock speedboat. So he sold the speedboat and bought a family style sport cruiser. (Not in that order – a man needs time to let go of such a powerful symbol of his glorious, hair-on-fire youth). Then I insisted that we needed to be more financially stable. We both worked hard, switched jobs, advanced, doubled our income. Drats. Then I claimed that I wouldn’t be ready until I was thirty. The hub patiently waited, and in time I reached the big 3-Oh.

Which rhymes with “D’OH!”

I was out of excuses. But that’s all right, because by that time I’d sort of warmed up to the idea.

I’ve already mentioned the turbulent journey we had weathered in our quest to have a baby. Months of disappointment, followed by several miscarriages. It drained us both to the point of exhaustion, not to mention exasperation.

Along this rugged path, I joined a miscarriage support group, where I found comfort and solace with other women who had suffered the loss of a pregnancy. Together we mourned, and healed. And here I met a woman who would be my best friend ever. Except for the fact that she had already had two beautiful children previously, we were so much alike. It seemed as if we’d known each other our whole lives and were now just getting around to meeting.

We met after only a few losses, but would bear many more, not just collectively but individually.

After so many blows, I reached a breaking point. I felt that I couldn’t bear another loss. Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be for us. My friend, however, though having much more invasive and traumatic situations to process in her quest, never lost hope. Never lost the desire for a baby.

I admired her deeply. I couldn’t wrap my head around how she could continue to draw the strength to never give up, when I could barely draw strength to think about it anymore.

In so many words, it was simple. I didn’t know what I was missing.

Incrediboy came along literally as we were giving up for good. The day of his arrival was the happiest, scariest, strangest, most surreal day of my life.

But I’ll be honest with you. The months that followed were less than happy.

I am not saying I didn’t love my little baby. I did, more than I could have ever fathomed. But pregnancy and childbirth and breastfeeding play a game of atomic ricochet with your chemistry and emotions and thought patterns in ways for which you can never prepare. I was an absolute wreck for months. The hub didn’t know what to do with me. I was terrified of every decision, every situation. There were times I wondered if I’d made a huge mistake – not wishing the boy never existed, but pitying him for being cursed with a completely inadequate mother, and wracked with guilt that I couldn’t seem to do better.

I don’t know how or why I thought what I was doing and how I was handling could have been improved. Babies don’t come with an owner’s manual, and in hindsight everything and everyone has turned out all right. He's a sweet, bright, funny little boy. I couldn't have asked for more. Still, I have been worn from the stress. I have never been so consistently wrecked for so long, and grace under pressure was not my middle name. On the outside, yes - but on the inside - far, far from it.

The Hub wants more children. I have always seen myself with two if I would have them, but I don’t think that will be the case. I doubt my capacities. I barely could handle the stress of managing one baby – could I handle another on top of a busy toddler? They say the second one is easier, as you know more what you’re doing. But I’m not comfortable with the challenge.

I worry about the decision, though. Especially with our life in the boonies. Shouldn’t he have a sibling? Someone to grow up with and bond with? Won’t he be lonely?

Ultimately I have to come to the conclusion that any choice I make will have its pros and cons. The best I can do is try to make the decision I feel is best for all of us. For now that means Incrediboy will be an only child. I have people in my life tell me I’m selfish for this. I also have people who are well enough off to afford to live on one income look down on me for continuing to work. (Actually, we could, if we'd give up a few luxuries. But we enjoy a few finer things, and must pay the subsequent bills. For this I'm selfish too). It’s easy to make decisions for others when everything’s so simple for you. But I am not out to impress anyone, or care what anyone but my son thinks of me. Kids manage to make friends no matter what the circumstances are – the Blessed Lord will bring peers into his life in good time. And while he may not know the special relationship that can only be created and felt with a sibling, his father and I won’t miss a single moment of his incredible magical life at the hands of being spread too thin, wanting for sleep or time.

There is nothing more important to me than being all I can be for him, and not letting one single one-of-a-kind moment slip by.