It all still feels so unreal to me.
Waking up to find I can no longer get up as quickly as I used to because of my heavy, bulging tummy. Going to the office with people greeting me ‘Hi, baby!’ instead of actually greeting me. Having all these weird, crazy cravings and mood swings.
I’m obviously, undeniably, irrevocably pregnant. Sometimes, reality just fails to sink in. Hangs like a word you want to say, but can’t.
I tell people I’m ready, that if anything, I’m excited. But as December approaches, panic sets in. Will I be a good mother? Will I be able to raise a decent human being? Yes, this is me panicking.
As I write, baby keeps giving me tiny kicks, perhaps telling me to stop overthinking. I can’t help it. Maybe because when something matters to you, you just want to give it your best shot. To not screw things up. And being a mother, you don’t get too many chances at it. It isn’t just a phase you will eventually move on from; it’s a role you will have to play forever.
The sad part is, the role doesn’t come with a script or a brief of some sort. The camera immediately rolls and you’re expected to deliver your lines flawlessly, no cutting, no censoring, no second takes. And it goes on. There’s no use wondering or worrying then.
A friend once told me that wanting to be a good mother is the first step to becoming one. I do hope she’s right. I may not have discovered the road to awesome, superwoman motherhood yet, nor will I 20 years from now, but I can always try.
Try. And Do.