I Doubt Myself A Lot.

On the first day of 6th grade at Eisenhower Middle School, (first day ever that I had to travel around a school campus to find different classrooms), the teacher of my computer class introduced himself, and then scribbled out on the white board the word "a lot". This is two words, and I didn't previously know this. (Any assignment turned in with this specific, monumental, glorious word misspelled will be handed back with an "F", and the already nervous, 11-year old, little Jacee will remember to never misspell this word again). Gone are the days of spelling "alot", and by the way, Welcome to Middle School!

There are a lot of other things I still know that I don't know. I'm hoping someday, someone comes into my life with a guide book or road map of where I started and where I'm supposed to end up. (Are "guide book" and "road map" supposed to be one word or two?. Who knows. Whatever).

Anyways, during our stay at the hospital, I had essentially rehearsed answers to questions regarding Son and how I'm doing postpartum because I didn't want anyone to question our ability to get discharged from the hospital and go home as a family. Whatever I was dealing with, that was my issue, not his, and every baby is happier at home. A smile makes every answer better.

Now I'm dumbfounded when people tell me things along the lines of, "You're such an inspiration!," and "You're so strong!". Um, no. I'm not... not at all, actually. I am just one person making from one day to the next, making it as best as I can; just like you. Didn't we do what any parents would have done? We were met with an insanely hard circumstance and both smiled through it while living in the hospital and attending classes to teach us how to care for our disabled baby. It felt as though we had to act a specific way through showing people in charge of discharging us that, yes, we are able to survive at home.

We are home now and even though it's still a struggle every day, it's worth it. I am so in love with my son and more in love than ever with my husband. But my question is this: does basically just surviving through misfortune install a sense of admiration in others? Because I still feel like all I did was exist while all the other details happened around me. And I feel I could have done a lot better, and that is where I doubt myself.

A nurse asked me, "Do you feel guilty?". Of course I feel guilty. I think any mother, anywhere, ever, in the entire universe would feel guilty their whole life if their baby was born with complications. (Of course the analytical part of me instantly disects the question 6 different ways. Does she think I caused this? Does she know it's a chromosomal defect? Does she think I drank cocktails while letting Mixed Martial Artists freely punch me in the stomach while pregnant?) Maybe she was questioning me, maybe she wasn't, but as I analyze it further, I remind myself that the fact that I immediately felt defensive is reassuring that I am a good mom. I am ready to cage fight Mike Tyson, run through a burning building, or punch a tiger in the face if it meant defending my little guy. Maybe defending him means I also have to get better at defending myself. I will always feel like there are whispers around us, asking, "What DID SHE do wrong?".

But in a different context, I still look at Dan almost daily and positively say, "We did it, Babe," because I want him to be assured that he's doing a good job. But... if we're both doing/did the same thing... maybe I'm doing a good job, too? Maybe I just need to reevaluate how I view myself.