Worrying

Anyone who really knows me won't be at all surprised that I worry about my pregnancy from time to time.  In fact, I think most of them would be surprised at how little I've worried, compared to my normal, worrisome self.  While I'm usually able to reign in most of my tendencies to fret, I still have a few moments, each day, when I can't shut them out.

So what do I worry about? Well, I'm in my 12th week, and I'm not really showing yet (which is not at all unusual). I worry about this even though Michael claims that he can tell a difference, when I'm holding up my shirt and staring at my abdomen in consternation.  I worry about whether I'm taking in enough water and nutrients. I worry about whether the showers I take are too hot (they feel divine, particularly when I'm trying to relax during a nagging bout of nausea) and I worry about getting really sick.  I worry about the fact that while I am delighted to be working again, it means that it's going to make it a bit more difficult, logistically, when the baby is born. 

Amusingly (at least, it's amusing to me), I don't worry about being a good mother.  I think it's because I know I'm going to mess up somewhere.  Just about everyone does, and I don't think I'm that special.  Plus, Michael is going to be an amazing father--he'll fix what I muck up, and I take great comfort in this.