With my first pregnancy, it seemed everyone was more excited than me.
My mother squealed when I told her the news. People at church kept hugging me and grinning in my general direction. Even my OB-GYN’s secretary shrieked, “Congratulations!” when I asked for a prenatal appointment.
None of them were spending hours curled in bed, barely moving due to nausea. They did not endure 12 hours of labor, during which I cried, “Why, God? Why do you want me to suffer so much?” To which my nurse replied, “This is what it takes to have a baby, sweetheart.”
Then I’m not sure I want to have a baby, I thought.
As a friend recently put it, raising children requires holding joy and sorrow in the same hand at once.
When my son finally arrived, I was in love. But soon it became clear that he was not one of those coveted “easy” babies. He cried incessantly and slept little. Frankly, there was a lot I didn’t like about him. I carried a crushing burden of guilt. Weren’t children a blessing from God, as the Bible and church people told me? Shouldn’t I like him more? Shouldn’t I be happier?