robber.
I think there’s a dead mouse in a vent in our living room. It’s not the first time this has happened, and will certainly not be the last — The Great Mouse Battle is an unavoidable part of living rural. It doesn’t usually bother me too much, especially since you only get a whiff here and there when the A/C turns on. Eventually it will dry up and stop smelling, and we’ll quickly forget the stinky offense that briefly inconvenienced our nostrils.
But today is different. Today, I would be willing to pay a large sum of money for someone to find and destroy that thing as soon as humanly possible. Today, that smell has me rushing from room to room, breathing with my mouth open to avoid even the tiniest whiff as I move through the infected space. I’m thinking that I might need to either never leave my bedroom, or set up an outdoor shelter to live for the remainder of this expired rodent’s smelly afterlife. I have similar sentiments towards melted butter, cigarette smoke and anything related to beef.
For some reason I thought I would be immune to food and smell sensitivities, but here I am, willing to do just about anything short of murder if it would only rid me of this God-forsaken vent mouse. Or bring back my appetite for a perfectly-cooked steak slathered in mushrooms and blue cheese. But for now, even just typing that has my gag reflex on edge and I may or may not have just taken a quick break outside to breathe some fresh air for a few minutes.
I’m told this little tater tot will be less picky in a couple of weeks, but for now I’m comforted by the fact that our next chapter grows a bit more each day, getting us closer and closer to January when we get to see her face to face for the first time. It’s absolutely mind-blowing to think that it’s only been 7 weeks since I saw that faint pink line for the first time, and 8 weeks since we somehow managed to create a brand new life out of thin air. It feels like so much has happened since then, especially within my own self, and it’s taken all that time for me to get to a point where I could put words together to describe it with any sort of clarity. That’s also partly because pregnancy brain is REAL, y’all.
But, this post isn’t really about pregnancy. It’s about a nasty little thief called Anxiety.
It’s hard to say exactly when I officially recognized my anxiety as a real thing with a name. I’m sure I’ve had some measure of it throughout my life, but I really started to notice it last year shortly after we moved into our new house. It’s a strange creature with impeccably awkward timing — just as all of the pieces of my life were coming together in the most beautiful way, anxiety decided to pop in and make itself at home for awhile. Thanks to many months of therapy and a new arsenal of tools in my belt, I’m in a much better place than I was a year ago. I can see it coming from miles away now instead of it sneaking up on me when I least expect it, and I’m proud to say that I’ve put in the work required to keep it at bay more often than not.
Not gonna lie, Covid put that work to the test in a big way. But I’ve found peace within that storm and continue to fall back on the truths I discovered early on in quarantine. I’ve learned to give myself plenty of time in between errands to sit in my car, mask-free, and just breathe for a bit before heading in to the next store. I stay away from the news and social media nonsense as much as I can, and make it a point to fully enjoy days spent with close friends and family doing and talking about non-virus things. Anxiety, meet Covid. Covid, meet my anti-anxiety toolbelt and kindly kiss my ass on your way out.
But alas, I digress.
Covid isn’t the only thing 2020 has given me to be anxious about. For whatever reason, as soon as I found out I was pregnant, I was sure I would miscarry. A week or two in, I made the mistake of consulting Google about a weird symptom I was having and, long story short, Google during pregnancy is a bad idea. It sent me on a downward spiral of fear, devastation and 24 hours of thinking I would lose the baby at any moment. Jesse swooped in with his SuperHusband cape and carried me through the worst of it, adding to the infinite list of reasons why he’s my person. In the days following as I recovered from that intense emotional drain, I realized a few very, very important things:
There are going to be things to worry about for the rest of this kid’s life.
Like seriously, talk about the ultimate rabbit hole. She’s only been a thing for 8 weeks (10 weeks if you count it the way doctors do...don’t ask, it’s weird) and I immediately started thinking about milestones I could look forward to when I’d feel more at ease. After the first trimester. Okay…after the second trimester. Once she’s born. After she’s a year old. Wait, how about after she’s graduated high school?? What about when she starts having babies??? Oh. My. God. What. Have. We. Done. If I let myself fret about all the terrible things that could happen for the rest of her life, I’m going to be a complete waste of a human.
I have no control.
This is a tough one for most of us, but it’s probably the most important thing we can continue to learn and relearn throughout our lives. There are so many things that can go wrong in pregnancy, not to mention what comes after, but there is very little that I’m actually in control of. I can take my prenatal vitamins every day, ditch my beloved wine, try to eat healthy and stay active. I can love this peanut with my whole heart. I can pray over her. I can educate myself and consult with my midwives when things come up. But at the end of the day, I have little to no control over the majority of things that could happen to her throughout her life. So the not-easy-but-simple solution is to just let go. Of all of it. Control the things I can, and let the rest float away with the wind.
I’m allowed to enjoy this.
I was so worried about telling people at 8 weeks instead of waiting for the traditional 12. I was sure that we’d go to our first ultrasound appointment only to find out the pregnancy was ectopic. What if we lost the baby and I had to go back and tell everyone they had been excited for nothing? What if we got used to the idea of becoming parents, only to have that joy ripped away? After several weeks of trying to keep my excitement at bay for fear of being disappointed when it inevitably didn’t go well, a friend gave me some much-needed advice that I’ve held on to tightly ever since. Whether I am a momma to this bean for a few weeks in utero or get to watch her live for 80 years, the fact is that my husband and I created life together. It’s okay for us to be excited and dream about what parenthood will be like. It’s okay to audaciously assume that everything is going to go perfectly and we’ll get to meet our sweet baby girl at the end of January. Every single day that I get to be a part of growing this tiny pink alien inside of my perfectly-capable body is a blessing that I am infinitely grateful for.
I already have everything.
I let my fear of miscarrying consume the first couple weeks of this pregnancy. Blame it on anxiety. Blame it on mommy message boards. Blame it on what I’ve witnessed other moms go through. It wasn’t until I faced that fear head on that I realized the lesson hidden within. Worst case scenario, this pregnancy doesn’t work out. What then? Well, I happen to have the best husband in the entire world by my side. We have a beautiful place to live, dogs who greet us when we come home and the most spectacular support system any one person could ask for. We have SO much to be thankful for. And the fact of the matter is, even if all my worst fears come true, we would be okay. We could try again. We could adopt. We could adjust to the idea of never having kids. I am a strong, adaptable woman and loss would not mean the end of my happy life. Not by a long shot.
At the end of the day, I will not allow the ruthless robber that is anxiety to steal my joy. I’m actually grateful I had that breakdown early on. Even though it was awful to feel that devastated, I think it was the only way to discover those important things above that will serve me well through the rest of this process. I haven’t been feeling great the past few weeks, but my sense of peace is as solid as it’s ever been. I will no doubt face more worries and fears as we go along, but now I’m confident that I’ll be able to navigate them while maintaining emotional balance. Anxiety is a part of who I am, but it does not control me. I hope this kid never has to experience anxiety in any of it’s forms, but if she does, here’s what I know: I want to be able to tell her that she, too, can overcome it. That even though there was a time when I was scared I would lose her at any moment, I chose peace. I chose joy. I chose love above all else, and that’s what got me through.
Have you taken inventory of all the things you would still have even if the worst happened? What is anxiety stealing from you right now, and how do you plan to take it back?
Love Always,
Sarah