Soon to be the last only-child in the house

We are waiting. Those of us who live here, the friends of the people who live here, the family far away. Baby A came 2 weeks before her due date, but this baby has not. So even though the due date is still not here, he feels overdue.

I don't do much right now, apart from fighting feelings of uselessness. I nap. A lot. Twice a day sometimes, in between doing much diminished activities so that my back doesn't bother me. I'm extremely wary of re-herniating a disk. I'm also expecting a C-section - as he gets bigger, so does his head, but alas, the pathways that head is going to have to travel, do not. But I'd like him to come in his own time, so I'm waiting, not piling on too many of the wives's tales methods for inducing labor. I have learned that one study found that actual gestation times for human babies can vary up to 37 days. Depending on things about early pregnancy, mother's age, first child's gestation time, etc. So we're not all set to pop one out in 9 months on the dot. Few babies arrive (6%? less?) on their due date.

So, in the process of not doing what feels like much, there is a lot of time to think. And the last few days my brain has been circling something that happened two nights ago.

I'd done my usual rest/chore/rest/dog/rest/dinner routing and had bought fresh strawberries and blueberries for dessert. To go with plain yogurt and honey. I was a bit excited about this (I told you my days were slow) and thought how good they were going to taste. I still manage to cook a mostly fresh dinner each night, and the bowl of berries was standing on the table, waiting for the meal to be over. When A got home (in her usual tired mode, excited, hungry, probably overwhelmed), she wound up finally at the table and wanted in on the berry action immediately. I let her pick a blueberry and then wait for dessert.

She (and we) ate dinner. And then dessert came. As does my feelings of shame for what happened next.

I put out bowls and spoons, yogurt and honey. And A helped herself. To all but 3 strawberries. It is at this point writing that I can sense the anticipation she must have had, so looking forward to that many. And I gave her flack for taking so many.

Because I want her to learn to share? Yeah, sure, nice answer that gets me out of feeling like a jerk. Nope, while it may have been clothed in that, I was basically upset at the unfairness of losing so many potential strawberries in my own bowl. As far as I can tell, it was two only children at that point and the one with the power in this house, me, messed up. Out of anger about getting enough strawberries.

Who's ready for a second child? Oh yeah, right here. Grade-A mom material.

Of course, guilt and shame set in once she was crying about me telling her she shouldn't have taken all of the strawberries. And it has been circling, quietly in the background for a few days. I've been letting it. Not pushing it away. It comes a bit close to the incident and my barriers go up, protecting myself from saying that I wanted to have the berries. From admitting how hard it can be for me to share my food.

Sure I look forward to it a lot - I love food. Tastes and smells and textures. I really do. High-brow and low-brow.

And I'm pregnant. So, you know, full of crazy hormones that could easily excuse me.

But I'm also an only child, whose own parents always gave her the biggest piece (or all of the berries, probably). Maybe more importantly, I'm an only child that is not usually selfish with a lot of other things. I give, I lend, I share. And I've always felt proud of the fact that it can surprise people I'm an only child. That I don't seem like one.

Except in the middle of the proving ground, with my first-born and a bowl of strawberries. I was so not an adult/parent in that moment it makes me cringe. I was so caught off-guard by that deep, internal "NO!" that it makes it hard to even look at what happened. I form half-sentences of explanation in my head before my guilt and ego shut it down. Too embarrassing, I guess. Too non-mom-like.

These are the kinds of moments that bring me to yet another self-help or parenting book. These moments of regressing to some kind of child-like state, in combat with an actual child that I have power over. They are so raw, so petty, and so strong that they stand out and I can't not do something about them. I can't not try to address them.

I'm not finding much of anything funny to say to wind this up. I do know that as this baby gets closer (to coming out of there, hello? We really are all ready), A is feeling more tension perhaps, and that there is more emotion around dinner time. Did I smash the dessert bowls in protest when this happened, out of nowhere? No, I didn't. Was I also disappointed that my thoughtfulness of making an extra stop to get the berries was totally lost on her? Definitely.

Have I now let her finish all the berries that were left, cringing in guilt when she didn't want to eat some before asking M and me if we wanted them? Yup. Feeling like a schmuck. This whole revisiting of the only-child feelings have only just begun, I'm sure.

Did I then give her my secret stash of crispy M&Ms and Snicker's Ice Cream Bars to make up for it all? Not a chance.