On this day two years ago, I had returned home from my 39 week midwife appointment. My OB (in the same practice) had made large notes in my records indicating that I needed to be induced because my baby was big. My midwife was pushing for the induction at 40 weeks (which still baffles me). I was pissed and scared that suddenly any hopes I had for a birth even close to what I had dreamed would be out the window. I was very, very pregnant. The next day I would walk and walk and walk and do everything I could to get labor going, and the morning after that, my water would break. I find myself reflecting on this time so often, but especially near BG’s birthday. Of course I do. I wonder if I always will. I relish reliving every moment of it, even the frustration, for this was a time filled with so much anticipation and excitement. Sometimes I miss that feeling of being on the verge of the greatest moment of my life. I crave that unknowing and even that naiveté of impending parenthood. It was a glorious time.
At times I wonder if I will ever feel that again, and I guess the reality is, I can never go back to being a brand new parent. Even if we have a second child (about which we are 85% decided), the experience will be completely different. I can’t go back to not knowing. Of course, maybe that will make the experience all that much more exciting. It will be wholly different.
But maybe there is something to learn from this. Maybe I thrive in moments of anticipation. Perhaps having something grand to look forward to and to dream about is what I need in troubled moments. I’ve got a few things on the horizon. I’m considering applying for a full-time, tenure track position at a nearby college–something I haven’t considered doing since we moved three and a half years ago. I’ve still got doula training coming. I’ve got seeds of new friendships. When I find myself in those holes that I wrote about last week, these sorts of things become my rescue. Whether or not this is healthy, only time will tell.