*Please blame all spelling, grammar, and other nonsense on my hormones*
Somewhere between the day Caesar should have pay attention to a warning and the National day of “Please yesterday was just a joke, don’t leave me!” I will be giving birth to a beautiful Chewbacca (if the heartburn myth is true).
The past ninth month and something odd days have been quite a journey. I have turned into a hungry beast that has demanded food so viciously that people got scared. I’ve sat at work and cried for an hour straight every week because those damn military reunion videos. I have watched in awe of my stomach moving as my child practices being Laila Ali.
I have been annoyed at my child for adding rooms and rearranging furniture in my uterus while I was trying to sleep. I once got so annoyed at a patient that my actions may or may not have finally caused them to start taking meds so they can leave my unit (my hormones made me do it). I have learned that there are a lot of men out there that become creepy the minute they find out you are pregnant (to the point that now I pre-printed write ups for the minute one of my guy employees even think about asking to rub my feet). I have experienced some other stuff that I cannot remember (but I’m pretty sure it’s on twitter if I ever want to relive it).
Overall, being pregnancy has been great. This time has allowed me to examine what I want out of my life. For one, I want to give Lil Fro the best life I can possibly provide which means no more lollygagging about and doing the things I hate like adulting. Picking a pediatrician, filing for child support, applying for CHIP, making a week’s worth of meals on WIC and $10, deciding whether to move or not, figuring out how to get my dog back, wondering if it is too late to learn how to sew so my daughter won’t be dressed in a pink explosion all the damn time is exhausting. Couple with the fact I am doing this alone with a very limited salary of lint and pennies, makes it even more exhausting and stressful. However, all that is just giving me motivation to work on my life, which includes getting back into school. Earning my degree and moving somewhere that has less chaotic weather than Texas.
Now I’m not complaining. I have gotten myself in this mess. Though it wasn’t planned and sure wasn’t wanted, I have to take responsibilities for my actions cause although it takes two to tango, this life that I’m about to give birth to, will be depending on me. And no matter how petty and ultimately childish I want to be and screw up the other parent’s life (cause why should he be getting an happy ending in his life and I’m stuck), I won’t because in the end, it will just be screwing up my child. Also, where would I find the time and energy with a newborn to even do that? He can come around on his own terms because priority 1 is her (priority 2 is to defeat the odds and get more than 2 hours of sleep a day).
I used to envy those who like past me, said they were not having children. It was such a wonderful life not really having anything depend on you but a dog and a cat. But now I can see why people with kids would tell me that life is better with kids. I might be anxious about the upcoming labor, about how to raise my child (because not only being Black but also mixed race is a thing of itself), what will happened if she rejects nerd life all together, but I’m excited and happy that this gives my life true purpose when before I felt like I didn’t have one.
Now if you can excuse me, I am going to write a very strongly worded letter to the makers of this crib about why they decided to write these instructions like everyone understands Ancient Greek or something.