Before I was pregnant with my baby boy (who is 4 months old as I am writing this), I always knew that I wanted to have children, at least one. I always see myself as a family woman - I enjoy home life. I simply wanted to have my own family - a husband and kid/s - to tend to, to take care of, to love, for the goods and the bads, absolutely to live with my entire life.
Pretty basic. Everyone’s dream. Any woman's desire.
Yet, when two sticks showed two red lines each (I did home pregnancy test twice, just to make myself believe), I was wrecked into two pieces - really in awe of having a little human alive and grow inside of me. A part of me was overjoyed: how amazing it would be to carry my baby weeks by weeks in my womb, to deliver, raise and love him my whole life. The other part was extremely terrified: how frightening it would be to bear a baby at my 35, how I was not mentally ready for a baby despite my age (not even ready with anything yet!), and suddenly all fears concerning my baby’s life just came up: What if my baby is sick? What if my baby gets hurt? What if he inherits my bad health traits? (I’ve got issues with bad immune system, plus being pregnant at such an old age concerns me with risks causing birth defects which I strongly fear my baby may have. Why risking my life by having an unhealthy baby? I really wished that I had had him at 25!) What if I could not nurture him the best I could? What if I am a bad mother? - and so forth. The suspense was killing me!