By Nicole Perkins
Between the aching hips, violent heartburn and general exhaustion of being pregnant with my third child, I have to find time to keep the house running. Insert howls of laughter here.
My family’s been really great – my husband tries to do things the way he thinks I want them done, but still just doesn’t understand that a kitchen isn’t really clean until the sink and counters have been wiped down. I’m trying to let go and I love him even more for trying.
Even the kids are trying really hard to be helpful. I made them a sticker chart and after 10 stickers, they get a prize – nothing fancy, just dollar store junk – and I am blown away at how fast they try to get those stickers. Anything that requires bending over has become their thing and they are now happy to do it and look for things they can do to earn those stickers.
Now if only I can feel ready for this baby. All my repressed memories are starting to resurface and I’m getting scared. As I start to write this I realize that most of that fear revolves around nursing.
I did it for four months with my daughter, but barely three with my son. I’ve read all the books, have all the support in the world, but between the cracking, engorging, wondering if they get enough, wondering if I make enough, pumping, watching what I eat/drink – I dread the whole song and dance of breastfeeding more than anything.
I remember being blown away with my daughter by all the stress and insecurity that it brought. I thought it would be easier with my second child, but it was harder. Maybe I’ll get lucky this time and everything will fall in place, but I’m not getting my hopes up.
I’ll do it because it’s the best thing for my baby, and I’ll try for as long as I can as with the other two, but I am definitely not looking forward to it. And maybe I’m psyching myself out, but I am not a quitter and I’ll give it another shot. I blame National Geographic for making it look so easy!