choking back the worry

I had some trouble clipping the tags on Macadamia’s tiny baby wardrobe earlier this week. I am 33 weeks pregnant. My pregnancy has been relatively easy. All signs point to this baby being healthy and his squirmy kicks tell me he is strong and yet… I still worry. Having done this once before, I know that the worry I feel for him now will never go away. I know that I will worry about him from the moment he is placed in my arms, when I leave him at daycare, when I put him to sleep in his crib, and pretty much all day everyday for the next 60 years or so. The worry I am feeling now is a different kind of worry, it is the superstitious please let everything be ok and let my baby wear these clothes someday kind of worry.

I was reluctant to wash and organize Caroline’s clothing last time too. I looked back at the archives and I didn’t clip the tags on her onesies and feetie delights until after Christmas when I had a little scare and the doctor told me they wouldn’t stop labor at that point. Nothing gets a newbie parent’s butt into gear like telling them that they could have a baby that instant. We all know things didn’t exactly work out that way, but we were plenty prepared when Caroline did finally arrive. I think this time around there is just so much more on my mind; Christmas magic to create for a Santa obsessed toddler and that amazing wedding in the beginning of the year. I’ve got baby prep on my mind; finishing the trim in the nursery, pulling things down from the attic and getting the things up from the basement, figuring out where to store the bottles since the cabinets are overflowing with plastic sippy cups, and other various and ridiculous tasks. I am also preparing for the second annual sugar cookie decoration extravaganza. (Special thanks to BIGY for having their buy one butter, get two free sale last week, just in time!) So yeah, things are crazy busy, but I just can’t shake the superstitious worry.

I washed all those tiny outfits. I dug through a huge pile of yellow, green, white and this time blue to find the matching monkey pants for the monkey shirts. I organized them by size and type and put them away in his drawers and the whole time I kept eyeing a silver cross sitting on his dresser with a prayer for expectant parents that asks to keep this baby safe from harm.

Please keep this baby safe from harm.

My memory is flooded with snippets of last time; the high blood pressure that wouldn't go away, entire days spent lying on my left side after Caroline's birth, willing myself to breathe slowly and deeply each time the nurse came to check my pressure hoping I could in some way alter the outcome of her measurement and get the go ahead to take my baby home. Let's not even talk about the mental list I have for the afterbirth experience filled with items from the first aid aisle and the biggest box of nursing pads I can find. It's too early to already be concerned about all this - but last time I didn't really have a clue - this time I un/fortunately do. All this weighs heavy on my mind, but nothing so much as my concern for my boy.

The only thing worse than having to sort, wash, fold, and organize all that clothing would be if I had to take them out of the drawers without putting them on his adorable little boy body. Everytime I walk by Mac’s room I reach for my belly, say a silent prayer and choke that worry back as hard as I possibly can to remain positive, to feel secure, to wait with hope.


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