The last person I waited to tell about being pregnant is my own mother. I wasn’t expecting her, or anyone else to react overjoyed for me. I’ve been overly honest about most challenges I’ve dealt with since moving across the country years ago. I get that, mostly based on a reflection of their own lives, that my family is constantly concerned for me. What if, what if, what if? I don’t know about what if. I can’t ask myself those same questions. I can’t predict what life throws at me, and I can’t act like a victim because things are difficult. When I feel that way, I feel like I have a noose around my neck.
So my mom reacted fairly…flat. Dissociated. Sort of confused. The tone alone was painful to hear. My mom didn’t enjoy pregnancy or motherhood. It’s clear as day to anyone that knows her. She just didn’t have that connection, much like her own mother had with her mother. They weren’t kissed and hugged, they weren’t celebrated as beautiful children.
We spoke again where she sounded guilty to have to ask me questions about how I’m doing. I brushed it off and responded, suddenly talking a mile a minute about everything I’m learning or excited about. She spoke over me flatly, “Did you… plan to do this?” Her resentments of her own life couldn’t radiate more. I took a deep breath to respond, “No, mom, I didn’t plan this. Of course not, we have goals and would have probably waited a few more years. This is life though, I have to deal with what comes.” She really didn’t understand and we hung up.
For now, I’m dealing with being okay that the support I was hoping for from her I won’t have. Every way I want to be a mother, isn’t the way my mom felt. That’s more of a reality for me to face than her. It’s not like I’m not scared. But for my own baby, I don’t want to be a victim.