Tell me I’m going to deliver early. Tell me I can’t have the baby yet. Tell me that the full moon means she’ll come that week. TELL ME ONE MORE THING ABOUT MY BODY AND WHAT’S APPROPRIATE FOR IT TO DO.
Your good intentions are killing me inside. Seriously.
Because they mean so. freaking. well. They (and it’s 9/10 times women with adult children) just want to share! It’s not going to be like you expect. All of these things will happen. Your plans will never last longer than a second. Cloth diapering is cumbersome (not these days! cloth diapers are made of genius and magic and will probably still be a giant pain, yet). You’re not going to want to come back to work. Blah blah blah.
First, I find it SO FRUSTRATING at the “you’re not going to want to go back to work.” Because I don’t think you realize how much of a fucking privilege it is to have a parent stay at home with a child. I am sure I am going to spend the first week back in the office crying about how much I miss the baby. But I don’t have a choice, as I have repeatedly stated. If this baby wants health insurance, I will be at work. Also, we will be having a parent at home with the baby. It’s just not going to be me. And you know, if I realize I’d much rather be at work than home with the baby, hey, thanks for making me feel bad about that choice!
I can’t feel mad at people for wanting to help and offering what they perceive to be well meaning advice. But it continues to feel like people are trying to dictate what my body should do, how I should feel and how I should react to that. It’s beyond frustrating and it’s almost condescending. Yes, it is Monday and I am back at work! My due date isn’t until next Friday and I didn’t tell you I went into labor! Don’t be surprised!
I’m not having this baby until Halloween just to spite everyone.