Anxiety, variables, and a clean slate


Anxiety, Variables, and a Clean Slate

When folks find out they’re going to be having a baby, it’s time to set up shop in an appropriate dwelling somewhere in the suburbs, far away from the hustle and bustle of a busy metropolis. After all, isn’t that the ideal place to raise a baby?

I’d been dreaming of a life in the city since I was little, and considering I’d been waiting out the last three years in the suburbs, I wasn’t about to let a little thing like a baby stop me from achieving that luscious goal. And so, instead of running away from city life, I decided to run towards it.

It’s immeasurably difficult to determine the needs of a growing family before the family has, well, grown. As is, the best Mike and I can do is plan around finances and more visceral, immediate needs. The most immediate being that I needed a maternity doctor that I could trust and breathe easier knowing that she (or her team) would be in the delivery room with me for the birth of my first baby. ‘Cause, y’know, I’m terrified of that whole bit.

I couldn’t do that while stuck in the suburbs as bureaucratic red tape threatened to strangle our little family before it even got started.

With that in mind, we started looking for a two bedroom dwelling that was in a good neighbourhood and had room to grow a bit. Real estate prices in the City of Glass are the highest in Canada (yes, even including the sprawling cities of Ottawa and Toronto) so purchasing was out. Even renting was going to be a doozy with those kinds of prices.

We looked.

We looked and we looked and we looked.

By the time the middle of January hit, we despaired. The deadline to get our information into the hospital I wanted to deliver at was fast approaching and we had nadda to show for it.

Panic ensued.

I had problems sleeping.

What in the hell was I going to do if I didn’t have a baby doctor? Get a midwife and deliver the baby at home? Truth telling, although that option works for some women, I sure as shit knew it wasn’t going to work for me. Something about being firmly entrenched in science and having a deep and profound respect for highly-trained professionals? Nah, more like it makes me nervous not to know all the details.

So, as I sat up at night, afraid of all the x’s and y’s in my baby birthing equation, I contemplated and, some would say, brooded (lends credence to my claims of being Batman). Part of me craved — no, needed — answers. The other part of me was so paralyzed with fear that inaction became my middle name. I wanted to embrace this anxiety of unknown variables and, if it was a problem that would only affect me, I would’ve been more inclined to take a deep breath and plunge.

But this… tiny creature needed to be protected, which meant that I needed to be proactive instead of reactive. It also meant that I had a lot of undue panicking under my belt while Mike picked up the pieces and, y’know, found a place for us to live. Panic stopped choking me. I could sit back and sort out some of these things called priorities. Well, in theory.

I’ve let a lot slip through my fingers over the last four months while I adjusted to this whole pregnancy bit: projects (both personal and work-related), people (did I mention that I became a temporary hermit?), and places (for the love of cupcakes, will you look at the state of this apartment?). I’m in the midst of rectifying the plethora of screw-ups that went about masquerading as pregnancy haze.

New dwelling. Clean slate. Tally-ho and sally-forth, Jeeves. Onward.

Photo Credit: Pope Jon

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