I know that it's easier when the bun is in the oven than when it comes out. I get that. Part of me loves the miracle and experience of feeling the little guy moving around inside of me. But part of me, namely the inside of my ribcage, is tired of being pummeled and kicked to the point of pain and soreness.
Then I realize how quickly this pregnancy is coming to an end. I mean, we're almost at the end of May, then there's June and July and bang, there's August. I start having to take deep breaths at that point and start humming in my mind along with the chant, "It'll be okay, it'll be okay."
'Cause I know it will be okay but I'm just concerned about how okay it's going to be. I mean, I'm tired mentally, physically, and emotionally just dealing with my force of nature as a mostly single parental unit. To think of throwing a newborn in the mix exhausts me even further.
And it's not just that. It's the knowledge that comes with the consecutive children. With the first, you're more concerned with "I am going to be responsible with keeping this child alive." With the ones after that (and maybe it's just me who worries about this crazy stuff), you realize that keeping them alive is the easy part as compared to actually raising them to be humans with strength, resilience, and morals to do the right thing on a daily basis whether you are there or not. That's what weighs me down - the enormity of this parenting responsibility and my concern that I won't have the emotional stamina to juggle 2 little beings' development.
Maybe the problem is that I just think too much. Only time will tell.
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