I was sitting in my living room, indulging in a nice salad and rice because that’s what my crazy fetus enjoys. It then hit me that in almost 3 months time, I’ll be sitting in that same spot with a swaddled newborn. It wasn’t the idea of the newborn that sent sudden waves of terror and anxiety in my body, it was the idea that there was only about 3 months left until he appeared. I had only 3 months and a lot less time to get things accomplished than I had hoped.
I looked at my bedroom, which I had destroyed in a fit early on in my pregnancy when I realized nothing fit. Where was I going to put this bassinet? What happens next? Do I baptize him? Who do I choose to be his godparents without offending everyone else? Will I be a terrible mother this time around, knowing that I wasn’t that great my first time? I couldn’t help to think “well with all those kids in foster care or the state’s care, I’m sure it could be worse.”
Then, I cheer up. “I’m sure it could be worse for him.” No that’s not what cheers me up, I’m not that awful. What comforts me is that in 3 months time I won’t have to pee every hour and all these aches and pains will vanish. I’ll have this little life staring at me wide-eyed and excited for what the next day will bring. That’s the best part of being a parent: realizing that you can open this new life’s eyes to something better than what’s actually there. Children are innocent and unaware if you don’t feel like changing out of your pajamas. They don’t care about anything other than whether you love them and are there to take care of them.
Maybe 3 months is perfect time. Time enough to focus on getting everything done and time enough to enjoy it while it lasts. Time enough to prepare for everything, and realize that all the preparation in the world won’t help for all the unknowns parenthood brings. Maybe 3 months isn’t perfect time, mostly because there’s no such thing as perfect time for anything.