This afternoon, my husband stumbled in from last night’s bachelor party, his sunglasses on. I immediately demanded he take them off so I could see what he was covering up. I was expecting a black eye, but it was just his eyes squinted nearly shut. He regaled me with stories of their drunken PG-13 shenanigans. And then he asked about my quiet G-rated ones (PG if you include my swearing). He fell asleep in my arms and I kissed his skin that smelled of rum.
You would think that he’s the reason we haven’t had kids yet. He misses boys’ night out, while I much prefer a girl’s night in. He drinks and occassionally smokes and gambles while I read and put together jigsaw puzzles. My life is that of an 80-year-old, his an 18-year old. But despite our hobbies, the real deterrent is me.
A couple days ago, we were on our daily walk and there was the slightest change in him. Maybe it was the twinkle in his eye or the way he enunciated his Rs, but something was different. He was more tender. The way he talked about our future, I knew the moment had come. He is ready to be a dad.
I’m afraid of what the next step will bring. Afraid because I’m not sure that my feeble patience can bear the weight of motherhood. I fear postpartum depression. I can’t imagine choosing between quitting my job and sending my child to daycare – neither one sounding worse or better: just equally evil. The choices and responsibilities of motherhood seem so far beyond my maturity level, and I’m not prepared to deal with them. I am always second-guessing my willingness to become a mom just yet. Perhaps I live too much in my head. I am always talking myself out of what I think I want.
I want peace.
That elusive prize
I will never obtain
because I won’t
allow it to myself.
I’ve always lived
within the walls
Anorexia of the soul.