Baby, Love and Going Home

  • The service having id "propeller" is missing, reactivate its module or save again the list of services.
  • The service having id "buzz" is missing, reactivate its module or save again the list of services.
Baby, Love and Going Home

protesting. Every interview breeds new reasons. Some of them actually say they don't know. But I admire their gumption. I wish I was well enough, or brave enough to go get arrested on the Brooklyn Bridge with them or to be pepper-sprayed for a belief not even concretized in my brain. I feel old next to them. Navigating this process of pregnancy makes me feel ancient. My body feels like any day now it might atrophy from the lack of movement.

I am not in control of what is happening here and I don't know what to do. My body has never failed me so miserably. It has always done what I have asked of it, and without much fanfare. I am not a person who visits hospitals, nor lies in bed because she has to. If I am not making love or sleeping or lazing, I am out traveling or courting or creating a rumble somewhere. This quiet immobile grey threatens to stretch longer than a night, and I am frightened of how much I am committed to doing it. And even more terrified of how much want this baby. I wish I could control how much I want a safe arrival for my little warrior. We've had so many mishaps. And every time, the ultrasound reveals its' heart beating fast and furious, fueling blood and vitamins and minerals across the amniotic divide that connects our separate ecosystems. That connection, that divide makes mush of me. I cannot explain why the tension of our separation, or togetherness, leaves me unsettled, but willingly so.

I am not used to such tenacity in the face of such adversity. Literally, this kid has dug its heels into my guts and is holding on for dear life. Usually, after this much frazzle and fuss, the women I have loved leave. I expect them to leave, and they do, unwillingly, but they eventually leave; that I know how to survive. It is this staying that makes my heart palpitate and my breath twist like a hungry tapeworm in my intestines.

The 38/40 weeks of preparation that mothers are given to contemplate the arrival of a child is either brilliant design or torturous madness. In the 25 weeks that I have been pregnant I have examined every decision I have ever made. I have gone over every mistake, triumph, and missed opportunity. And I am here, long past

Comments [2]

ms_daresay's picture


less than 3

KilledMyHeartWifLys's picture

I <3 this

I <3 this