Stressed?

1 Oct

It’s often said that the stresses of motherhood begin when you’re pregnant. That it’s then that you begin to worry; about what type of mother you’ll be, whether you kid will make friends, do well in school, grow into a decent human being of moderate attractiveness.

I’ve read so much lately about those terrible mothers who don’t breastfeed, and those terrible mothers that do. Mothers who would be better parents if they spanked their kids, or better parents if they didn’t.

During pregnancy, women are told they should be doing less, more, or something else entirely if they really have the best interests of their unborn baby at heart. Shame they did this or didn’t do that – now their kid is going to be ruined for life. I’ve got a friend who is pregnant now, six weeks away from delivery, and I’ve never seen her with so much as a feather out of place. Now, she’s freaking out about the cost of school and whether she can eat a plate of curry from a vegetarian buffet. She’s going to make a fantastic mother but there it is; that horrible stress that someone, somewhere, is judging you.

And now, it seems, even before you get pregnant, you’re doing something wrong. You’re too stressed. Even if you’re doing everything right, even if you’re two perfectly healthy and happy adults – that’s why you can’t get that much wanted dumpling to stick to the pot. Because you just want it too much.

If you’ve ever had any trouble trying to conceive, you’ll know what I’m talking about. Image you’ve booked a ticket to travel around the world. You’ve quit your job, taken time off, have all the money that you’ll need saved up. You’re at the airport, waiting, but your flight is never called. You’re told to sit down and wait, it’ll be next. It isn’t. You ask again and everyone is all smiles, telling you not to get stressed, that if you just wait you’ll be on the next flight. Despite the fact that you see a bunch of other people getting seats before you. You ask again, but this time you’re told that you’re not being allocated a seat because you’re too stressed. Calm down and it’ll happen, they say. Just wait. And then another flight leaves with more smiling couples on board and all of a sudden you’ve crash tackled the air hostess for some of those M*THER F***ING TICKETS BECAUSE YOU WANT TO START YOUR HOLIDAY ALREADY.

The Boy and I haven’t been trying that long but let me tell you; the ups and downs of that two week wait are enough to give stress wrinkles to a puppy.

Each month we put more pressure on ourselves than deep sea divers as we navigate the murky waters of conception. Luckily, Ry wants this baby as much as I do and could be the poster child for The Perfect Husband Foundation with the amount of love and care he gives me, even when I’m hormonal as hell and crying for absolutely no reason.

But no matter what you do or how lovely your husband is there’s always that nagging thought at the back of your mind that’s wondering if you’re going to be THAT couple. The one that doesn’t make it. The one that ends up on hormones, IVF, or the news for stealing someone else’s bundle of joy.

And I know I said in my last post that this whole thing totally wasn’t bothering me, but I’d be a liar if I didn’t say that this wasn’t the thousandth time today where I wondered whether this was our month. Because that’s what waiting does – it turns you into a crazy, obsessed and slightly hysterical human that can’t think of anything beyond counting days and wondering when all this freakin’ WAITING will be over. And then you’re caught thinking that it IS actually all your fault, because if only you could relax you’d be pregnant by now. Which, of course, continues that nasty little cycle of disappointment and self blame.

In all honesty, I’m doing OK. Sure, there’s about a dozen moments a day when all I want to do is chug back a bottle of vodka and say to hell with it all, if only I wasn’t so concerned that doing so may pickle my egg. Already I’m stressed and I don’t even have a sniff of a baby yet. And to think I’ll be enjoying this feeling for the rest of my life.

Stress and worry, you say? Sign me up.

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