Touch Me
credit: Lazerite
When I first got pregnant, nobody warned me that for five months my body would spread outwards in all directions, so I’d look more like I was carrying a double helping of deep fried Oreos than gestating a baby.
And nobody warned me that not only could depression whack you off your feet after a baby, it could creep up on you during pregnancy, infusing your hormone-ridden body with low grade anxiety and sadness.
But one thing I was warned about, over and over again: people are going to touch your belly, I was told. Strangers are going to put their hands on your body.
And that freaked me out. I don’t like to be touched by people I don’t know. I have been known to get irrationally furious if someone brushes their hand against mine when passing me in the street. I love cuddling with people I love, but I am uncomfortable with the touch of strangers.
So I waited, anxiously, for the intrusions.
They never came.
My friend patted my stomach once, which was fine.
My brother’s wife’s grandmother put her knobby hands on my stomach last month, and it was sweet.
And that was all.
I’ve been told that I can appear stand-offish, and I have been screamed at by too many passing men in cars to “smile!” so maybe my mean face scared people off from touching me.
Strangely, instead of feeling relieved, I felt cheated. It’s not like I have family I can call up every night and chat about my nausea and baby blankets. Being pregnant has been a mostly alone experience that I’ve processed via internet baby boards, too quick friendly inquiries after my wellbeing and the weekly sanctuary of prenatal yoga. I feel like I’m missing out on some part of this experience. Missing sharing the excitement with others in a way that would enhance and allow my own excitement.
Then, last night, I went to the Footsteps art opening. One after another, friends and acquaintances and people I just met put their hands on my stomach, some asking before their fingers reached out, some checking it was ok after their palms already rested on my shirt front.
With each touch, I felt like my pregnancy was being celebrated. I felt a little flow of energy between their light hands and my tight skin. It was wonderful. The woman who dreaded others’ touch, in actuality, relished it.
You’ve got approximately eleven days left before the fetus’ ETA, people, so touch, touch away!!!
Printable Version
“You’ve got approximately eleven days left before the fetus’ ETA, people, so touch, touch away!!!”
I’m not planning to be in the Big Apple for another three weeks. Maybe I’ll just touch the real thing
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Oddly enough, the loneliness during pregnancy seems to be pretty common.
As a single guy, I’m not sure why. I can assume that perhaps it’s because everyone is running free, fetusless, while the mother is stuck carrying around the baby.
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I keep on telling my husband – you’re carrying the baby for the next nine months
!
I think it has less to do with feeling “stuck carrying” it, more to do with the strange and constant sensations (physical and emotional) of having something living inside your body – that it’s hard to share with anyone else, becuase it’s largely invisible.
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The emotional ups and downs?
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Congrats on your pregnancy! Many blessings for an uneventful delivery. Afterwards, say when the baby is past 3 months and is hopefully sleeping a little more so that you can get your head back on, check out http://www.momsclub.org/ and look for your local chapter to join. Where I live, it’s been a super helpful network of moms in the nearby neighborhood. Email groups, playdates, etc.
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