needing a reason

I know it's not my fault.

That's what everyone keeps reminding me. My midwife. The surgeon. My mom. Every single medical website I Google.

There is this list in my head. The one that details everything I might have done wrong, the what-ifs.

I took Tylenol more than half a dozen times.

I missed a prenatal vitamin.

I took hot showers.

I drank eight ounces of coffee every morning to ward off migraines.

I definitely did not get enough sleep.

I did the laundry, which was next to the litter box, which hypothetically could have gotten cat germs on my hands that I probably did not wash.

I got a 24-hour stomach bug that could have created an unsafe environment in my body.

I didn't come close to eight glasses of water each day. Seriously, not even close.

I pumped gas.

I shoveled our driveway. Twice.

I ran 18 miles a month before I conceived.

I was too stressed about keeping all the balls in the air.

I didn't always use natural cleaners.

I ate non-organic fruit. And even then, not enough fruit.

Sometimes I twirl the ring on my finger that holds the birthstone of this baby and say an apology. For doing all those things wrong. For caring more about my cup of coffee and a hot shower than my teeny tiny baby.

I know it's not rational. I know it's not really my fault. I know there are babies born to mothers who do far worse things during pregnancy and their babies survive.

But that means the questions are much bigger. And harder. And most likely unanswerable.

The reasoning my cup of coffee brings might be wrong but somedays it's easier to understand.