My husband and I decided last summer that it was time. Time to take the plunge, create a life, dare to be parents. I thought I was ready. I read all the fertility books, adjusted my diet to include lots of Omega 3 fatty acids, and worked out diligently.

Two months later, when the pregnancy test came back positive, I realized I wasn’t ready. My knees buckled. I couldn’t speak and cried when I handed the results to my husband.

Now, almost 8 months after that momentous day, I feel more confident but no more prepared. I laid in bed last night counting Braxton-Hicks contractions and thinking, “Oh my God, I’ve gone into per-term labor and I don’t have a bag packed.” (I hadn’t, of course; I only had two contractions in 30 minutes.)

What I’m worried about isn’t my ability to raise a little girl (yes, we’re having a girl!). I’m not worried about my husband’s ability to play dolls with her, teach her to throw a softball, or scare away unwholesome teenage boys. I’m worried that we’ll bring her home from the hospital and be missing something vitally important—that there won’t be enough onesies, that the breast pump won’t work, that our savings account will run dry and we’ll end up on the streets. I’m worried we’ll run out of diapers at 2am. I’m worried the synthetic dye in our rugs or the chemicals in our walls’ paint will send her into fits of epilepsy. I worry over whether I’m supposed to put a bib on her when she breastfeeds. I worry that not having a wipe warmer means I’m a bad mother.

But ultimately, our little girl will arrive. And ultimately, we will meet her needs and she will turn out just fine. Because ultimately, I know that we are responsible, mature adults with hearts so full of love that we needed to create another person just to keep from bursting.

Posted by Stacy, a Dot-arilla Blogger

Tags: Mom Talk, Stacy's blogs
Posted in : Babies, Mom Talk, New Moms, Stacy's blogs