I’ve been thinking alot lately about my inner fears, those tip-tapping thoughts that have kept me awake some nights during this pregnancy.
The fears that probably stop me writing about my hopes and dreams for this pregnancy and the baby boy I’ll be welcoming in around eight weeks time.
You see, last pregnancy I felt like a goddess. I was blooming, full of hope and wonder about what my body was doing and was capable of. I went to yoga weekly and got in touch with my baby from early on in the pregnancy, I read about pregnancy and birth and I felt educated and in awe of this life-changing event that was taking place.
This time, not so much. Sure, I’ve felt well for the majority of the time and at 32 weeks I don’t yet feel too massive and have been taking walks around my neighbourhood, while work and running after the boy keeps me busy.
But the fear, it’s always there. The fear, not of the birth itself – though that is sometimes there too – but of the aftermath … replaying in my head the moment that I found out that my perfect baby boy that I’d held in my arms for a few hours at that point wasn’t as perfect as I thought.