Worry. It’s a mother’s prerogative. Comes with the territory and it’s definitely in the job description.
I never worried as much as I did when I got pregnant with Boo. I bled at eight weeks with her and, despite seeing the little shape of her as a baby on the early pregnancy scan, until she was placed in my arms, I didn’t stop worrying.
Who am I kidding? The birth is just the start. You then worry on a whole new level.
I only realised how much I worried when we moved to the farm. When I packed up Boo’s room, I found all the receipts I had kept.
Receipts for her cot, clothes, bedding, everything. Everything I had bought when I was pregnant, I kept the receipt.
This pregnancy has been worse.
I am so worried that something will go wrong and it is getting worse as the weeks pass by. Not better.
I really enjoyed washing all the baby clothes when I was pregnant with Boo. This time, I have been reluctant to take things out of their wrapping.
I have no idea why. I am hoping it is just my silly imagination and the fact that it seems to have taken so much to get here rather than a sixth sense of foreboding.
Only time will tell.
It seems such a shame that I have been unable to enjoy what could be my last pregnancy.
I just can’t help it.
The worst bit is, along with these neurotic worries, I also have the usual ones.
What if I’ve forgotten what to do?
What if the baby is a boy? I am totally fine with girl bits but what on earth do you do with boy bits?
Babies are so tiny. What if I break it?
I know I’ve managed to get Boo to nearly four years of age without breaking her but, still.
I remember leaving hospital with Boo and expecting someone to come running over the car park to me saying there had been a mistake and I wasn’t allowed to take this tiny little person home.
I can’t help thinking that could happen again.
Do you worry?