I find that I get in zones with writing, and it’s very hard
to switch gears. I cannot spend a day churning out copy for emails and
brochures, then sit down in the evening and write from the heart. All this to say, I’ve been wanting to write
for months and months now, I have so much to say and so many things to capture,
but I haven’t been able to sit and get the words out with so much of my focus tied
up in my day job. Now that I’m on maternity leave, I would like to spend more
time in this space, telling my personal stories.
*****
Maternity leave. I am
38 weeks pregnant. I wish I had written more during this process, captured more
details to remember it by, since this will likely be my last pregnancy and last
baby. Then again, how can you really capture it? There are not words sufficient to explain how
weird and magical it is to grab hold of your baby’s foot at it kicks you,
stretching your uterus, reaching for the outside. How deeply you feel the
connection to a bundle of cells you’ve never met, and how you instinctively
know how connected they feel to you too. How that connection is proven every
time my husband rests his hand on my stomach - the baby scoots over and calmly bunches
up right under him, then kicks furiously and pushes outward whenever he takes
the warmth away. How can I put into words how magical it is to listen to her
heartbeat at every appointment, and hear it accelerate every time big sister
starts singing or talking? Or the joy of preparing an older child for the
responsibilities and realities of expanding the family, the pride in witnessing
her excitement and readiness?
There really are no words.
To be pregnant is a privilege and I know it. It hasn’t been easy this time, for sure. I have a hard time right now remembering what
life was like before I was pregnant. A time when I felt comfortable in my body,
able to wake early and run long and still keep up with my family all day. A time when it didn’t feel like my husband’s
work schedule was sucking the life and joy out of me. A time when I wasn’t
repulsed by 80% of all smells, my bones didn’t ache, and my underwear fit. I
look at pictures of myself from a year ago, in my size 7 jeans, and it feels
like another lifetime. I’m sure Amaliya doesn’t even remember a time when her
sister wasn’t in my belly, and that’s a strange thought. The days are long but
the years are short, or so they say of raising children, but it applies to
pregnancy as well. This will all seem
like a flash in the pan, a brief moment, when I look back on it. For now we are frozen in time, my undulating
belly and I, just waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
I plan. It’s what I
do. I am able to make fast, firm decisions partly because I am always forecasting
and reviewing all possible future scenarios in my head. It’s a mixed blessing
when pregnant, because though I feel very well prepared for all that can happen
to me during labor and after, I am also a little terrified when I think too
long about my life with two children. I know we’ll adjust, life will continue,
we’ll settle into a new normal and forget that life was ever different. I know
that anticipating the struggle is much worse than living it. I already can’t
imagine life without my newest baby girl, and she hasn’t arrived yet.
Still, I’m afraid. I’m
afraid of the depression that will inevitably set in, thanks to hormones and
sleep deprivation. I’m afraid that,
unlike last time when I the freedom of a husband who worked part time, allowing
me to get plenty of exercise and sleep in and maintain a sense of relative
freedom, this time I will be alone with my babies for 13+ hours a day, every
day of the week. I’m afraid of losing the ability to take care of myself, and
having no one to take care of me, and what that means for my family. I’m afraid of not being able to hold it
together, mostly. Of losing myself, the sense of identity that I proudly held
onto throughout my initial transition to motherhood.
It’s the same old, sad story that fuels blogs and message
boards and mommy groups around the world – women lose themselves in motherhood,
our sense of separateness and personhood and individuality is eroded by the
fact that we are non-sleeping, milk-dispensing, caretaking drones who exist
solely for the comfort and upkeep of the families that we, at one point,
thought it was such a brilliant idea to build. We all feel that way, sometimes,
and there’s no judgment here. We all question our choices even when we know
beyond doubt that they were good choices.
We all feel worthless sometimes, even when doing the most important
work. It is possible to look at the child you created and feel overwhelmed by
love and joy and pride AND despair, knowing that you are doomed to be worn down
by the intensity of those feelings for the rest of your life.
*****
I wrote the above a few days ago. I seem to be wavering between panic and peace
on a near daily basis. The last week was
hard, physically – my own fault, since I committed to a consignment sale and
volunteer hours when I really should have been gently stretching or warming the
couch. We had our third baby shower yesterday (I honestly did not plan for or
anticipate having any; my gratitude is boundless), which was the last of my big
commitments for the month. I am grateful my baby Moon Cheese decided to bake
for a full almost-39 weeks and allowed me to push through. Now I can breathe. Now I am prepared. And no, she will not be coming home to a
spotlessly clean, quiet, calm house, or a meticulously decorated nursery. Those things just aren’t in the cards for
second babies. But she will certainly find two parents and a big sister with
arms wide open, so anxious to meet her, so in love already.
We’re ready for you Moon Cheese. Asha.
We’re ready.
