When I was a little girl and on up through my twenties, I said I never wanted to have children. I was certain I did not possess the “mom gene” required for such a difficult, lifelong task. And I wanted to travel. To live in as many different cities as I possibly could to grow, learn and evolve my small town mind.

It wasn’t until I met my husband that I really wanted to make a go of having a family. Maybe it was because somewhere deep down it was something I had always wanted. Or perhaps I felt my age was increasing so quickly that I wanted it because maybe it might not be an option soon. Also, I was feeling as if I had explored quite a bit. I had taken solo ventures out of the country and visited some amazing cities throughout the US. And I had, on a whim, uprooted myself by moving across the map to where I knew no one and had successfully built a life on my own. I had “jumped and the net will appear” so many times, the net fibers were wearing thin and would not likely hold many more leaps. Whatever the actual reason that changed my mind, I will probably never know.

From the onset of my first pregnancy, once it was actually happening, to the birth of my amazing daughter, I have questioned my ability to parent. From the first waves of postpartum depression to the gut wrenching feelings of losing the person I once was; I have feared because of what I would or couldn’t give her would ultimately result in an adult life full of therapy sessions trying to remedy what was lacking in her life. I loved her, but did I love her enough? Would I unknowingly mold her into a ticking time bomb with no patience? Was I ultimately going to be responsible if she took the Jeffery Dahmer path? How could I prevent it? How do you shape a tiny person into an outstanding adult?

These issues haunted me. With every move I was second guessing, questioning, trying to figure out who I needed to be, to become or pretend to be. For years I nodded my head and smiled at other moms, hoping to glean, from yet another play date, some nugget of understanding how everyone was seemingly so confident in their parenting path and I was nothing short of a hot mess. Because of my downward spiral into the vortex of self-doubt, I never thought I would be able to have another child. And somehow that made me feel even worse. I had grown up with 3 sisters and while it wasn’t always a slumber party of fun, I was never alone. How could I cheat my own child out of something as meaningful as a perpetual partner in crime?

But when dust settled and the sun came out; with what I can only guess was literally my last egg, I was expecting another baby. The pregnancy was nothing short of a total nightmare. No longer was I humored by the novelty of growing a human in such a small space. I couldn’t sleep, my back hurt so bad I cried if I had to walk long distances. But after all craziness subsided, I had a baby boy just as perfect as the little lady I was blessed with almost four years before.

Since he joined the family, I still question what I am doing and if I am doing the best I can. Providing the love and comfort they both need. But as I watch them run and play together, I know the one thing I have done right in the game of parenting, was giving them each other.