While pregnant, I worried my child would be like me: shy, insecure, hesitant with friendships, with saying ‘yes!’ I remember, as a girl, my mother coming to say goodnight and being greeted with a daughter in tears who asked her, “why doesn’t anyone like me?”
(I grew out of it, found confidence, found myself, but it took years)
Now that I’ve met my son, I have the opposite worry. Like his father, he’ll often be fearless. Like both of his parents, he’ll want to do things perfectly. But I think he’ll be charming, loved, outgoing. I think he’ll have this bottomless well of joy, optimism, hope. I think he’ll be headstrong, independent, capable. I worry that he won’t ‘need’ me at all.
It’s exciting. It’s wonderful. It’s what we wanted – a child who could hold his own, who would leave home at 16 for a magnet school or to live in Chicago with Aunt Taylor, in London with Aunt Susie, anywhere. But it’s a strange feeling to look at my eight-month-old boy and already know that he’ll probably be his own man long before I’m ready.