Herbs pregnancy avoid

I am so pregnant, and this heat is stagnant. I’m sitting, watching a little boy pretend fighting a monster, and I don’t know what to do. 

I just found out I am having a boy. I don’t know how to deal with boys! 

I know tea parties, doll houses, silly giggles. I don’t understand these pew-pew-pews, and gurgling sounds that are emanating from this small strange creature. 

One of which is growing inside of me. I have tiny testicles, growing inside of me. Right now! 

I know that I thought I didn’t care what the sex of my child would be, but seeing this actual child in front of me… 

How am I supposed to take care of one of those…? 

It is coming up on summer break from Montessori. Water day. All the kids bring their swimsuits, and play in the watery jumpy castles, and throw water balloons, and have a rip roaring good time. 

It’s the second hot sunny day in a row, so I know my son is excited. 

As the PTO president, I have to be here to organize the teacher’s end of year party, so I have the opportunity to watch from behind, and there he is. My little almost 5 year old, making grunting noises, and fighting off the monsters that are just past my field of vision, and I reflect on a summer not too long ago, and he is the cutest monster fighter I have ever seen! 

He is everything I feared, and I love it. I love him. I want his world to always be this perfect. Life is never perfect. In all of the fights with his dad, in front of him, and all of the sh*t happening in the world, that I try to shield him from, and all of my fear, anguish, anxiety about what is to come, which even at his young age, I am sure he cannot help but see. I would do anything to keep his world perfect. Futile.

It is all futile. Trying to have a conversation with a teenager is futile. 

I could not protect him from divorce. I cannot protect him from his angry father. I will not protect him from his life. It is his life and I have to trust that he has the tools necessary to live it. 

I have to trust that my best has been good enough. And I feel like a failure. All. The. Time. 

Then I forgive myself, because I have a f*cking cool kid. 

Who cares that he isn’t as social as I am? He has his friends. 

Who cares that he doesn’t like the beach? He has his activities. 

Who cares that life has thrown him curveballs? He would have to swing the bat either way. Life isn’t perfect. I am not a perfect parent. He will not have a perfect life. 

And when he lets me, I will catch him when he falls. That’s what parents do.

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