I haven’t blogged in a long time. Not deeply; not authentically.
Part of it is because life has gotten more hectic. Crochet orders flow in steadily, requests are constantly being made. Bean started walking shortly before his first birthday, and it’s taking everything I have to keep up with him, and attempt to keep up with the housework.
Part of it is because of health struggles. Though I have had underactive thyroid symptoms for most of my life, it was only a few years ago that I was diagnosed and started receiving treatment. These past few months have been test after test, new doctor after new doctor, traveling, new meds, etc.
But the biggest part?
Not so much fear of how other people will think of me (though that’s there, too), but fear of what will come out of me. Fear of whatever unknown thing I’ve buried so deep inside myself that threatens to come out every time I sit down at my keyboard. Fear of the emotions that will inevitably flow. Fear that I won’t be able to stop those emotions. Fear of a breakdown. Fear that I won’t know myself when I’m done.
But I must, or this fear will eat me alive.
Bean is nearing 14 months old. I haven’t done an update on him in a while, simply because his milestones have become so numerous and constant. He’s walking, dancing, singing, running, climbing. He’s learning to put his toys away every night. He’s turning the pages in his books, even though he rarely lets Bear or me finish reading. He’s exploring, making friends, chasing the dogs. He has 7 teeth now.
I was so fearful of his birthday. I’d made great strides in my emotional recovery from his birth, but I was terrified of what the anniversary of that event would bring. Surprisingly, it brought nothing. I wasn’t apathetic, but numb. I felt the joy of being his mother and having the privilege of watching him grow; but I felt no overwhelming happiness at it, nor the overwhelming grief I had been setting myself up for. No tears, no anger, no resentment. I think a good deal of that was due to the fact that my family was visiting that weekend to celebrate, and I had little chance to focus on myself.
For weeks, I’ve been bracing myself for this outburst of feelings that I know have been hiding. Yet, nothing. A few mild panic attacks over nothing related to his birth. Can I really be over it that easily? Maybe God has seen fit to relieve me of that heartache, and I’m not willing, on a subconscious level, to let it go? I don’t believe it, though.
When do you know you’re ready to expand your family? Physically? Emotionally? I’ve been struggling daily with this. Have we given my body enough time to heal, to properly carry another child in my scarred womb? Have we given my heart enough time to heal? The anguish of not remembering my first time meeting my son haunts me. I’m no longer numb, but fearful. Some moments, I feel ready. Most of the time, though, I’m so afraid that I’m not ready, in some capacity or other. I know Bear is ready, and that Bean will be a wonderful big brother. How selfish am I, to keep from them what is rightly theirs because of my own fear?
I have been meaning to re-write Bean’s birth story. The order of events is true, but I lied about how I felt, especially at the end. To myself, to anyone who read it. Why? Who was I trying to protect? What good did that do?
But what will re-writing accomplish? Will it help anyone else? Will it help me? I hope so. I desperately hope so.
Not now, though. I’m still not ready yet.
And now I’m babbling. Into the Universe, into a void. Praying that this word vomit becomes some sort of catharsis for me.
I fear, but I have hope, too.
Mama Bear of one Baby Bear, Bean, who both love Papa Bear, and live in a crafty, gluten-free cozy den.