Expectations

One year ago today I woke up fully expecting to deliver my second child. It was my due date. Because Elias was born on his due date and even my husband was born on his due date, I was certain that my second little bundle would also be a timely one.

Not so. Alena Mae was born on April 25th, five days "late." Those five days were excruciating by any bloated, pregnant woman's standards. My only consolation at the end of the day on April 20, 2005 was that my baby-to-be would not share a birthday with Adolf Hitler. But by the end of the day on the 24th, I was pretty uncomfortable (desperately so) and who would share a birthday with whom did not seem nearly as important as it once had.

Obviously, I made it through those five long days and she was finally born, kicking and screaming. She taught me the first of many lessons that week, and looking back, most of those lessons seem to follow a theme. She's always teaching me about expectations.

Often times consciously, and even more often subconsciously, I have expectations about what mothering two children and what mothering Alena should be. I expect her to find some semblance of a routine and then adhere to it. I expect her to sleep. I expect her to be like her brother. I expect her, in a nutshell, to do what I expect. But she does not. She surprises me. She does things at different times and in different ways than Elias did. Already, she has opinions and she has ideas. And they are usually different from the plan I have made. I want very much to let that be okay.

Expectations be damned.