Deep in the bowels of my blog’s unpublished entries, there’s a post from 2006 that will forever remain in drafts, if I don’t delete it entirely.
It is untitled.
The opening lines:
This is the post where I am scared to hit “publish.” The one I fear will be permanently archived on these here internets and I will be powerless to erase my words.
When I think of this pregnancy, I am not excited. That is not the adjective that comes to mind.
I am terrified.
I could have been happy with one. I am happy with one. I never saw myself as “mother of two.”
Mother of two. Oh my God, what have I done.
It was early in my second pregnancy. So early, that I was still justifying sips of pinot noir despite breasts that had prematurely swollen to the size of two twin Hindenburgs. So early that I was wondering about my magic ovaries and whether I was deserving of them, when so many women in my life who wanted babies yet were struggling. So early that I didn’t know the things that could go wrong during my pregnancy–and the things that nearly did. I was simply scared of whether I was up to the task. Whether I could get through it again. Whether I could love the second one as fiercely as I loved the first.
I haven’t thought about the post in years. But then, two things brought it back to me this week.
First, was a beautiful email from a woman named Sarah who found Mom-101 after desperately searching for blogs that might help talk her down from her panic at being pregnant at 22. She wrote a PS: Do not do a google search for ‘blogs young mothers’ or ‘young and pregnant’ – I made that mistake…only to find inappropriate pictures with absolutely no advice.
I’m kind of hoping that this headline and the SEO gods will bring a few women like Sarah here instead, so they know that being scared and pregnant is not limited to the young. When I wrote that post, I was 38.
(Ooooold, I know. Magic ovaries. Magic ancient ovaries.)
However the second thing that made me recall my original post was this picture:
It’s a portrait of Sage, with a portrait of Sage through the eyes of her older sister.
(Pretty good, eh?)
Hello, my name is Sage. I have a sister named Thalia.
One of the things I feared when I was pregnant the second time, was that I was having a baby for my baby. I was enduring another 40 weeks as human incubator (I am arguably a terrible, no-good grumpy pregnant person) to provide Thalia with a sibling.
What I never realized at the time for some reason, was that I was giving them each other.
Now I can imagine it no other way.
When they call each other best friends; when they draw pictures at school, never one without the other; when I tuck them in together at night, side-by-side under the same quilt, wondering why the heck we got a bunk bed anyway, I can now answer my pregnant self’s oh my God, what have I done? question.
The answer makes me smile.
We talk a lot about writing letters to our teenage selves, telling them everything will be okay–but really hoping that other teenage selves will see it and believe it, sooner than we did ourselves.
Maybe we need to write letters to our formerly pregnant selves too.
What would you say to yours?