The Alarming Confession

Two things spark this lunchtime post (sitting here in my almost-bare-naked office, waiting for help schlepping my stuff to my new digs):

1. A conversation I had with my mother a couple of weeks ago and another conversation held at my home with Himself and the bishop last night. (Our first visitors to the Hobbit Hole!)

2. This article posted on MSNBC.com.

It's no secret to anyone who knows me well that I am not what one would term "natural mother material." I would go so far as to say there is not one maternal bone in my body. (Okay, maybe at least one, I did conceive Baby Girl on purpose). I didn't play with dolls (but my teddy bear did have clothes, thanks to my lovely grandmother). I didn't like babysitting (perhaps that had something to do with the fact that I was always volunteered to watch the charity kids - the hellions whose parents couldn't really afford to pay me anything). I firmly declared in high school and then again in college that I didn't want children (partially to watch the slow, glazed look of horror creep into my mother's face, as she tried to decide if I was serious or not).

It's not that I don't like kids. I do. Mostly. I am positive I will adore Baby Girl, because she represents so much more to me than anyone else's child does. I particularly like babies. But I don't get all gushy over them. I've never felt the need to sell my soul to have a child.

The woman in the article had a friend put her hand on her stomach and ask if she was pregnant yet. I haven't had that happen, but I have had random people, almost strangers, really, ask why I hadn't had children yet (once coming only weeks after a miscarriage where I wondered if carrying a child would be as difficult as potentially conceiving one - the timing couldn't have been worse). I have had people tell me that I was selfish for waiting so long to have children (as if they knew for sure it was my choice). And other such absurdities.

But those who knew me well kept mum for an entirely different reason, apparently. A couple of weeks ago, my mom confessed to me that she was a *little* bit worried about my bearing a child, and not just for the page-long list of medical reasons I could give. "You know, she said, you really aren't naturally maternal..." and launched into the list of reasons I listed above, all of which had previously crossed my mind.

It might have made someone else mad. But I already knew that. It just underscored the fact that I am probably insane for having a child mere months after other life-changing events, but who really times these things anyway? Then, for reasons known only to him, last night Himself brought up the same conversation with the bishop of all people (who was visiting us to welcome us to the neighborhood). Had I not been sitting across the room from him, I would have kicked him. Hard.

He said, with all the love in his heart, "Sara isn't really maternal. She and her sister are complete opposites. She's the driven, career-minded, independent one. Her sister is the Martha Stewart mothering type." It was slightly relevant to the conversation we were having, and Himself did say it with absolute love and pride, but I still wanted to kick him. It, of course, prompted a concerned bishop to ask what I planned to do with Baby Girl upon her arrival - as if he expected me to say, "Well, you know, once that is over, I will just return her." As if! I tried to do damage repair on my already bruised reputation, but I'm not sure he believed me. I wasn't as innocently convincing as Himself had been.

I will confess: Baby Girl has only a carseat and a stroller, thanks to grandparents, and a few clothes, thanks to friends. She has nothing else, because I don't seem to find the same thrill in baby gear shopping as other women. I would happily send Himself to buy the necessary items if I wasn't convinced he'd buy the store out and spiral us into bankruptcy in the process.

I don't think Baby Girl will change me into some mushy, motherhood-crazed being, like the article's author described. Because I have some of the same gripes she does - I get tired of the implication that I'm somehow imperfect for not being the queen of maternal instincts, for one. I wanted to hug Himself last night as much as I wanted to kick him - because he doesn't find me lacking. He's proud of me - crazy, mixed-up, psychotic hormonal pregnant-with-no-nurturing-instinct woman that I am.

Truth be told, on the days I'm not ridiculously scared out of my mind about this motherhood stuff (and the stuff that has to come to actually produce Baby Girl in the flesh), I'm head-over-heels-in-love with Baby Girl already. To me, she already has a personality, and I revel in the quiet moments I get to spend with her headstrong self every day. In my own way, I am maternal.

It might not win me any accolades from those concerned about my eternal welfare, but for us it is enough. Baby Girl is loved by both her crazy mixed-up, imperfect parents. And that is all anyone can ask for really.