Memories of Baby Years

Now that I'm pregnant, I'm a bit lost without mom. I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing or feeling, and all the books that I'm reading scare me more than reassure me. Everytime something hurts, I just want to ask her "did this happen to you too?"... "Is this normal?"... "Will we survive?".. granted, I've always been a little more than over dramatic. I have the feeling that my questions for her will only mulitply when Jack comes. I don't even know how to freaking hold a baby, nevertheless, be the only line between survival and perishing. Why can't babies just emerge walking and talking?

My earliest memories are a bit jumbled together in my mind, so I have no idea to determine which was the earliest. I can only benchmark them against the developmental baseline which I learned in the 6th grade Home Economics unit on family life. I have dozens of solid memories of life in the little brick ranch house on Anchorage Drive, where my dad lived when he met my mother, where they spent their first married years together and where we continued to live until I was about four. There are memories of the hobby horse in the basement, my sister cutting out the pink satin bear from my baby blanket, potty training, eating bologna and american cheese sandwiches while watching "Belle and Sebastian" on cable t.v. (a luxury not afforded to us from ages 4-14), barfing on my carpet in my room and birthday parties in the back yard. In all those memories, my mother plays a dominant role. How could she not? I barely started to go to Pre-Kindergarden when we moved, and she was basically the sun upon which my world revolved.

One paticular memory sticks out. I must have been a toddler. I was still young enough to be in a crib, but almost to big to be out of it. My mom was putting me down for a nap and for some reason (I don't remember being hungry), I wanted a bottle. I think it was more for the comfort of it. She was annoyed but finally conceeded. I remember staring up at the mobile, waiting for my mom to hurry up and get me my baba. And the feeling of gratitude and happiness when she gave it to me.

That's the kind of mom that I had. She wasn't always super pumped to do what she had to in order to give us stuff that we wanted (not needed), but she always provided. I hope I can pull threads of wisdom from her actions in my memories in order to be just as good of a mother to Jack.