I haven’t been too good about writing. Not because I don’t have anything to say but mainly because when I sit down to write…..I just can’t seem to get the words to come out.
I’m a few days away from being 31 weeks along in my pregnancy. I thought I would be past the fear part of things. Instead I feel more on edge. More irritable. Scared. Somedays downright terrifed. Why? Not sure. The baby’s ultrasound came back perfect. Genetic testing came back perfect. He’s gaining weight as he should be as am I. ( If you could see my pantry full of girl scout cookies, your jaw would drop) I’m so afraid to really talk about when our son comes home. I mean…I’ve washed his clothes and put them away. I’ve washed the crib sheets. We’ve picked out a perfect name for him. But I haven’t really been able to visualize him here…at home. Sleeping in my arms. Haven’t been able to picture myself changing his diapers or staring happily into his sweet baby eyes. Haven’t been able to picture counting all his little toes and fingers. And all I can think is…how screwed is that? How completely freaking horrible am I that I still won’t allow myself to believe he is coming home. I read blog after blog of mom’s who hope. Mom’s who believe. Mom’s who find their peace with God. Mom’s who expect the best. And here I sit at eight months…fully expecting the worst. What kind of mom does that? Where has my hope gone? Where has my optimism gone?