9 Months Old

Bubs is 9 months old today.

That means he has been out in the world as long as he lived in my belly.

The poor little thing never wanted to leave that warm, dark space, that existence of fluidity. We took him out by force, a decision I would not repeat under the same circumstances.

The funny thing about the doctor-patient relationship, though, is that the doctors are purported to be the experts. Presumably, patients choose doctors they trust and can therefore make informed decisions based on the perspective they provide. Some people know their own bodies really well, too, and can factor that into any decisions they make about their own health.

However, when it comes to decisions about pregnancy and childbirth, it ain't just doctor-patient anymore. It's doctor-patients. And one patient is an unknown quantity, someone whose ins and outs you just haven't learned yet, someone whose life depends on you and only you. No pressure.

So when an OB throws around risks like "fetal death" (even though we had a strong heartbeat, intact placenta, plenty of amniotic fluid, etc., etc.), it feels like the decision has already been made for you. Add in an equally scared Hubs—who is not disposed to ask any questions of a physician, let alone to question their advice—and you're getting cut open, no question. Somehow we just didn't feel that my uninformed (yet extremely strong) instinct was enough to outweigh the recommendation of the medical professional.

Nine months later, it's so clear. Mothering is all about instinct. And unfortunately, like with the decision that kicked it all off, my own instincts rarely involve a big, red, flashing arrow pointing to the right path. Sometimes it is the tiniest voice. Sometimes it is auto pilot. Usually there is some unpleasant feeling in my stomach. For people like me, it's often something that is rehashed, over-analyzed, turned over in my mind like those zen meditation balls (I am not sure what they're called, but I refuse to Google "Japanese balls"). Did I do the right thing? Was he ready? Is this starting our relationship off on the right foot? Am I being selfish? Are we sending him on the right path? The answer is inevitably, reliably the same: listen closely; find your instinct; follow it. When I've done that, I've had no regrets.

Of course I haven't always done that. He wasn't ready, I knew that, but I went through with the C-section. I didn't start his life off by following my instinct, and I'm pretty sure if someone threw the "D" word at me again, it'd take a lot to ignore their advice. In fact, it has taken a lot less—family pressure, doctor pressure (again), the burning desire for some damn sleep—to make me go against my instincts.

And because parenting is, in our little family, a two-person job, there will also be lots of gray areas, mismatched instincts, and outright conflicts ahead.

Thankfully, after a mere nine months of, well, guessing our way through this incredibly common yet uncommonly important job, we are safe, sound, often giddy and always content.

My instinct is to stay the course.

Guilt: The Gift That Keeps On Giving

I know from guilt.

My mother's Italian Catholic and my dad is Jewish. Enough said?

Guilt and I had come to a sort of understanding. I know I will never be immune to its oppressive weight, but I try to engage it when it's useful and dismiss it when it's just badgering me.

This was never foolproof, but it worked a good lot of the time. Until I became a working mom.*

Now I know depths of guilt that had previously lay dormant, unexplored, deep within my psyche. I feel guilty that I am not giving enough time to Bubs, to Hubs, or to work (which, at the rate I'm going, could be called Flubs). I feel like I am half-assing everything, succeeding at nothing, and to me that is failure. I am failing in all the things I have always wanted out of life: a marriage, a family, a career.

And in the midst of it, in some attempt to have a sense of self (oh yeah, me), I started a blog. This blog. And it's been over two months since I posted.

But guess what. I am not going to feel guilty about this damn blog. I may feel sad that I can't make this much time for myself - and, let's face it, sad is what I really feel about the other areas where I am failing - but guilt is not an option here.

So if anyone is reading this, my apologies that I haven't posted in so long. It wouldn't shock me if it takes two more months before I post again. If you choose to keep checking back, I thank you. If not, that's OK, too.

In the meantime, we can all work to be masters over our own guilt, making an obedient servant of it.

Maybe I should start a show called the Guilt Whisperer.

*Of course, ALL moms are working moms!