I’ve had “Tummy Hurts” by Renee Rapp stuck in my head lately, specifically this part:
“They’d make beautiful babies
And raise ’em up to be a couple of
Fucking monsters, like their mother and their father.”
Not because I relate to Renee in the song.
Honestly? I relate to the person she’s singing to.
Not the man, obviously. That’s Hector in this situation. I’m the woman who’s carrying his child.
There seems to be this idea floating around from someone who used to be part of our lives that Hector and I are somehow the villains in her story. Maybe we are. Every story needs one, right?
The difference is that I don’t really care anymore.
I’ve been married to my husband for almost two years. We’re expecting our daughter. We’re building a life together. At some point you have to stop living in old chapters and start reading the one you’re actually in.
Did Hector and I commit some terrible crime? Not that I’m aware of.
We fell in love. We got married. We decided to bring a child into a world that’s currently on fire in seventeen different ways.
Is the economy terrifying? Absolutely.
Is everything expensive? Have you seen the price of groceries lately?
Are we 1,000% financially prepared for every possible thing life could throw at us? No. I don’t know a single parent who is.
But we’re doing okay. We’re planning. We’re working. We’re making sacrifices. And most importantly, this baby is wanted, loved, and already has two parents who would move heaven and earth for her.
The thing that has always frustrated some people about me is that I don’t let other people make my decisions.
I do what I want.
I always have.
I’m almost thirty years old. I don’t need permission slips from former friends, distant relatives, internet strangers, or anyone else.
And honestly, that’s one of the reasons this blog still exists.
This little corner of the internet has followed me through breakups, career changes, weddings, identity crises, hyperfixations, and now pregnancy. It’s mine. I get to say what I think here.
If someone disagrees, they’re welcome to.
But I’m done entertaining high school-level drama when I’m busy preparing to raise an actual child.
Because that’s what matters now.
At the end of the day, people will come and go. Friends change. Family dynamics shift. Life happens.
But when our daughter gets here, it’s going to be me, Hector, and her.
That’s the team.
And maybe this is controversial, but I genuinely believe children come first.
Will Hector and I argue sometimes? Of course. We’re human.
But our daughter’s job shouldn’t be managing our emotions. Her job is to be a kid.
She deserves stability. She deserves peace. She deserves to know that no matter what happens, her parents love her more than they love being right.
As a child of divorce, I’ve learned something important:
Kids can survive divorce.
What hurts them is being trapped in homes where everyone is miserable and pretending otherwise.
If, God forbid, Hector and I ever faced something like that, I would choose whatever gave our daughter the healthiest, happiest life possible.
That’s what parenting means to me.
Sometimes it means swallowing your pride.
Sometimes it means changing plans.
Sometimes it means moving back home for a while if that’s what creates the safest future.
I would rather make sacrifices now so my daughter always has a safe place to sleep, food on the table, and parents who show up for her every single day.
I never want her to feel like a burden.
Because she’s not.
She was planned.
Maybe not exactly on my timeline, but definitely on God’s.
And if you’ve been reading this blog for a while, you already know that I thought I’d be pregnant last year.
Apparently God looked at my planner, laughed, and made some edits.
But that’s a story for tomorrow.
