Mom for a Year

One year ago today, Finian was born.

At 10:52am on a Monday, after being induced on Sunday evening, spending the night squeezing Tyler’s hand and the morning screaming in agony, I became a mother. Labor was hell. Childbirth was hell. It didn’t go as planned, nurses ignored my birth preferences, my requests, my “no”s, the epidural didn’t work correctly, and the hospital had the worst channel list for the tv ever.

Yet, somehow despite everything that happened in those couple of days in the hospital, the most beautiful and perfect human came into the world, and I could not be more grateful.

Finian turning 1 is hitting me so hard. I’m a mess! How can I be so happy for this child and yet feel so sad at the same time?

I’ve shared in the past how it was such a strange path that lead to Finian; a journey filled with ups and downs and surprise twists and all those wonderful and inconvenient things that make up life. I’ve also shared how I struggled with deciding to keep the pregnancy, how an abortion seemed like a smarter option that I could not do. I’ve also-also shared how I always wanted kids and had a miscarriage at 19. It’s been wild, let me tell you.

And lately, I’ve been looking at my toddler (!!!!), and I’ve been filled with nostalgia, grief, and fears. My little baby is getting so big. Every day, they are bigger than they have ever been before, and they’re smaller than they ever will be again. It’s amazing to watch them grow, and I am constantly overflowing with joy, love, and pride. With every stumbling step, with every new tooth, with every new sound babbled, new food tasted, new toy played with, they excite me and delight me. And occasionally frustrate me--why will they put dirt in their mouth but not broccoli?

It’s such an odd feeling, to be both proud and sad, and honestly, I feel guilty about feeling anything negative at all. But I can’t help this tug of sadness, this fear that I may never get to do this again.

I always wanted a big family. A big house filled with too many kids and too many pets, that was my dream since I was very little. Finian was an accident, and I promised myself that I will never have another accident. If I ever have more children, they will be planned. After I have a stable home, a stable income, a stable life, when I know I can take care of another human without being a burden to my parents. That’s when I would consider having more kids.

And it feels like that may never happen.

I know, I know, I know it will. That logical, reasonable part of my brain keeps telling me, “yeah, yeah, it’ll take awhile, sure, but it’s inevitable. You’ll do it!” And then the rest of my brain, that dramatic, emotional, anxious part just sort of goes, “AAAAAAAAAAAH!” and I feel shitty.

I haven’t managed to get rid of any of Finian’s baby things yet. I look at their little, bitty baby clothes and get so sad. It’s so little, and my baby isn’t that little anymore, and I don’t know if I’ll ever have a baby that little again, and then my brain goes, “AAAAAAAAH!” again. So then I decide I’ll just get rid of it. Only keep a couple of the favorite outfits for memories, but get rid of all the stuff I don’t need anymore. Then I feel worse. And then, I tell myself that if I ever do have another baby, I don’t want to have to buy all of this stuff again, so it’s smartest to keep it all!

And that’s how I end up with boxes of baby clothes and baby gear, piling up in my parent’s basement and eating away at my brain, increasingly making me feel more and more guilty and sad.

I don’t want to dwell on these what-ifs or maybes, getting consumed by nostalgia for a little baby and forgetting to enjoy the toddler I have now. That won’t be healthy for me or good for Finian. At the same time, I don’t want to pretend that I don’t want more kids someday or that I’m not worried it won’t happen, because I do and I am.

I always hoped I’d get my working / money making business thing done before I had kids. You know, write that best-selling novel and live comfortably off the royalties or whatever while I raised children. I, in my naivete, thought, “Work in twenties, kids in thirties.” Really, I think I am best suited to being independently wealthy. That’s the life I was meant for. But how to get there?

Things are getting better for Tyler and I. We’re able to contribute more and more financially. We’re no longer wondering where the money to fill up the gas tank in the truck will come from or having to ask other people to buy diapers, which is nice. I had always intended to go to work, like for real get a job, after Finian turned 1. That was supposed to be the magic number: Finian turns one, and suddenly I would be ready to wean off breast-feeding, stop spending all day every day with them, and go back to work. Here we are, and I don’t wanna.

So what should I do?

Do I sacrifice the time I have with Finian so that I can have enough money to have more kids later? Do I give away all of Finian’s baby clothes? Do I repress all of the emotions I perceive as negative and focus solely on the joy, love, and pride I have for my little toddler? Do I write about in a blog while drinking too much coffee and listening to Taylor Swift’s new album while the kid babbles at their boardbooks? Yeah, that one sounds the most like me.

I don’t know, friends. Life is messy, and emotions are complicated.

Happy First Birthday, my little Finnie Bean. It’s been so amazing to watch you grow this past year, and I am so excited to see everything you’ll accomplish in the coming years. I know you’ll be climbing the refrigerator soon. Thanks for always dancing to music with me, and reading with me, and snuggling with me. You’re the best, and I love you so very much.