I had a little bit of a rough week over here, gestating my newest fetus. See, I have a three-year-old daughter already (who, if you know me IRL, is the total sunshine of my life) and I kind of had a mini-breakdown because I feared that I wouldn’t love the new baby as much as I’d love my already-fabulously-rocking daughter. I wondered if I was doing this poor child a disservice by bringing *her into the world, knowing that there was no way *she’d be able to compare to my first little baby angel, and that *she’d grow up in Izzy’s shadows feeling never quite good enough. That’s a heavy thing to fear for a child, you know.
I mused upon what it’d be like to divide my attentions and affections equally between each child or whether or not I’d inadvertently play favorites. If I’d be able to balance my compliments as well as my kisses. Naturally, all of this thinking led me to the conclusion that, though I think I’m a pretty good mom to my little girl, I’d be a terrible parent to two – or more – children. I decided that I was already unfit. I agonized over this for a whole twelve hours one day, but though it was apparent I was over-thinking all of this business, my husband was totally supportive of this whole ordeal, becoming the voice of sanity and telling me that I was worrying too much, that my hormones were “probably going to be all over the place” with regard to this particular topic and that I’d have positively no problem loving our new little darling as much as I love the quirky little mini-me that I popped out over three years ago. Deep down, I’m sure I knew he was right, but that didn’t prevent me from indulging in something so, so bad every time I had an adverse thought about my capabilities of loving two children (not in the same way, but) equally.
Very bad things. You know, like the triple-chocolate milkshake I imbibed on from the dairy-turned-ice cream shop down the road or the raspberry lemon bars that I just had to make that one night at quarter of eleven or hey, even the large popcorn and peanut M&M’s that I scarfed at the movie theater this past week when I saw the last Harry Potter film (but that particular emotional bender I blame on the death of Fred Weasley). This entire week has been all, all about food. Making food, thinking about food, writing up new, fun recipes for food (raspberry ginger meatballs – I’m just saying), planning what the next day’s food is going to hold, what restaurants I wanted to make reservations at in the coming weeks, you name it – it’s been done. And with copious amounts of leftovers thereafter.
Good news of the week? It appears that my morning sickness is over – or, at the very least, in remission. Which is good. I needed a break. Another few weeks of wanting to vomit every time I opened the refrigerator door despite how many fresh boxes of Arm & Hammer baking soda I put in there to mask the phantom smells that no one else could smell might have put me right over the theoretical-vomit edge. For that, I say “thanks for the respite, teeny-weeny, sweet *female baby in my belly.”
*Subject to review