A Little Bit of Love
The body, it hurts. The muscles ache with the force of post-marathon charlie horse. The acid reflux rushes up my esophagus with a velocity NASA might want to borrow. The foot cramps, the headaches, the exhaustion, the moodiness, the shortness of breath: I am not enjoying them.
But still, all is not miserable in last trimester land.
“I think,” I told my husband last night, “I think I’m starting to like the baby a little.”
“Yah hear that, [baby’s name]?” he laughed. “Your mommy thinks she likes you – a little.”
Now that I can clearly feel the outline of her leg pushing, like a scrawny fleigelah, against my skin, it’s starting to penetrate my foggy brain that this might be real. There might actually be a person inside of me (how crazy is that?). And into that little spot of awareness, I’m able to deposit a little bit of affection. Just a tiny amount.
It’s frightening to feel even that much, because I still can’t believe she won’t die. I still can’t believe, in my irrational reptilian brain, warped by years of fear training, that god won’t punish me for my sexuality and sinfulness, by killing my baby. Even now I can hardly believe that she’s still moving around my belly, hiccupping into my cervix.
This baby means so much to me, it is the ultimate dream I have longed for all of my life. I can’t believe that god won’t snatch her away from me, make my body carry her for all of these months, but, when the time comes, give me a stillborn child instead. And laugh. And say, “Hah hah, fooled you. Did you really think I’d let you have a happy ending?”
Be patient with me, [baby’s name], I promise I will love you. A lot. But there are demons that were harnessed to my back at my own birth, that I am still wrestling free.Printable Version