Happy International Women’s Day! I am a product of strong women and I generally like to think I choose pretty bad ass women friends. The ones who are down for all kinds of adventure and have survived and thrived despite multiple challenges life throws their way. Am I a proud woman? Hell yes! Am I a confident woman? Most days, yes. Am I a confident woman in this moment? Nope, not really.

I’m bumbling along in my first pregnancy, I worked so damn hard for, just wondering if it’s all going to be worth it or not? I know, things one shouldn’t say out loud. Then I feel guilty for admitting that thought because getting pregnant and staying pregnant wasn’t easy. I mean this kid is SO wanted…so why am I not feeling like I’m walking around on a hashtag blessed cloud all day long? I mean, sure I have my powerful Beyonce moments where I am like, I am Mother Earth… the fiercest queen who grows new life inside her! (Insert tribal drums here). But those moments are fewer and farther between as D day nears.

While I believe I possess grit and have figured out how to navigate the world around me, I’m starting to seriously doubt if I have what it takes to A) keep a small infant alive B) grow a small infant outside of my body and C) raise that infant into an adult I am proud of. Maybe, I want take backs at this point. Maybe a part of me does want to bury my head in the sand and say I can’t do it. I currently feel overwhelmed with the thought that the odds are higher I’ll mess this up than succeed.

I try and tether myself the memories of past fears going through major life changes and remind myself that I not only survived running the gauntlet, I thrived on the other side. I fear the unknown, but I know deep in my soul it’s what I want more than anything in this world, so I “just keep swimming.” I walk through the threshold as best I can with as much grace as I can. Hoping I can laugh about it all along the way or at least in retrospect.

And yet no matter how rational or irrational, the fears keep coming. Such as, I never really love other people’s babies. They’re like little breakable aliens who rightly sense I’m not suited to hold them so they’re never quite comfortable in my arms and I never quite get used to their foreign noises. Also, I can’t breathe on them too hard because their parents will blame me for giving them the plague that killed them. Holding someone else’s newborn is incredibly stressful, because you feel the parents just burning holes into the back of your head with judgment and worry.

Our one friends just had the first beautiful newborn I’ve ever seen (IN MY LIFE) and I had to comment on his appearance because he is a true unicorn. Newborns don’t get me high on love like puppies. I currently grapple with a very shallow fear turned question of what chance does my kid have of being even a decently looking newborn? I resembled a fresh road kill frog upon being forced to exit my mother’s womb. Not like an intact frog, more like a frog that got hit by a car after forceps pulled me out and forced me to be a part of the world. See? I was afraid to cross the threshold from the very beginning. Thankfully, there’s a partner in this scenario providing outside DNA. So I did a little research to see exactly what the chances of a decent looking newborn would be for us. And as the ol’ Magic 8 Ball would say, “Outlook not so good.” While my husband didn’t resemble a run over amphibian, he did look like a quizzical old man wizard. Which gives our genetic cross the outcome of a frog wizard baby. Congratulations Hannah and Larry, I can hear the nurses saying, as they hand us our very own Wizard Frog we are then expected to keep alive for the next 18 years.

I know what you’re thinking. It doesn’t matter what the baby looks like. All that matters is that the baby is healthy. They will grow and change so much! But this leads me to another fear. Will I openly lie that my kid is cute? Knowing full well my kid is not that cute. Maybe I’ll say something like, frogs and a wizards can grow up to make great adults! Or focus on the baby’s abilities instead of appearance. Man, can my kid poop! Poop champion, right here! I’ll get a sticker for the back of my mom car that says, “Great eater on board!” or “My kid made 80^th percentile!” Is there a way to be a truthful brag bus parent as opposed to a big fat liar?

If you enjoyed this let me know. If you want the 2 minutes of your life back it took to read to this let me know that too. I’m never low on crazy thoughts to share. Happy International Women’s Day to all the bad asses I have the privilege of knowing and continuing to strive to be more like. XOXO!