Oh, my goodness, I can’t tell you how happy I am not to be pregnant and/or raising toddlers. Wait. Who am I kidding? Of course I can tell you!
A friend of mine is in labor as I type. First baby, doesn’t know what she’s having, she’s been simultaneously excited and terrified. I’ve watched her go from “looking pregnant” to having to elevate her swollen feet after waddling a short ways, hand to lower back. She’s had to consider pediatricians and car seats and finding the perfect name that satisfies not only her and her husband but also her parents and in-laws, and one that won’t be associated with the next Hollywood scandal. She’s learned Lamaze and built a crib and survived awkward baby showers, all without the help of caffeine or booze. And now, after 10 months, she’s literally birthing that little miracle through the sheer superpower of womanhood. I’m exhausted just writing this paragraph.
And that’s only the beginning. Soon, that precious angel will start to walk and talk and attempt to scale the pantry shelves. My youngest sister was visiting with her kiddos, 3 and newly 5, and I couldn’t help but flash back to my own era with preschoolers. Sugar-induced tantrums, the battle over bedtimes, lost woobies, poopy pants … the horror! Sure, the wine helps, but keeping those rugrats alive and on the path to eventual home ownership is a constant source of anxiety and sleepless nights. Teenagers bring their own set of worries, but at least you can ship them off to boarding school.
I can’t tell you how great it is to be passed this nonsense!