Maybe it's that I worry too much.
I've always been a little anxious. In recent years, I've grown little suspicious, particularly if things go easier than I expect. I'm usually uncomfortable if things seem to be going well. Lord knows I was still a little worried that something would go wrong (especially after 3 losses and my other "conditions"), but behind it, I felt good. I loved the idea that I was pregnant, that we would have our sons -- even if I was sick, and so sick and tired of being sick.
I recall actually thinking, Well, I'm almost 17 (?) weeks now, probably things will be okay. But at the same time, I was trying to push away the thought of that one blogger I had read before I was pg, who lost her daughter at 19 weeks. (She went password protected after trai.nwreck.ing; I never got to hear the rest of her story.)
I recall actually thinking, Wow, I have a great marriage, I'm working towards a degree I love, my family is mostly healthy, we have good friends. Yes, we have debt, we have struggles, we miss my mom. But now we're going to have our own family: our sons, our sons would each have a brother. I'd hoped they'd be good friends. I looked forward to seeing our family evolve.
I looked forward.
It feels, in my lizard brain, like I've been slapped down. Like the universe is saying, See? You did have plenty to worry about. You didn't think you were going to get this, did you?
As I write this, I know it sounds crazy. Like some neurotic coping mechanism I developed in childhood has just been proven useful. Like I'm saying I sabotaged this, or I don't deserve to be happy, to get this one thing. Like the universe is saying, this is all you get; and not only do you not get this, you get punished for wanting it.
Like I should have kept worrying.
Like I should have held my breath until I held them in my arms. Living. Breathing. Squirming.
Rationally, I know it's not true. But.