Last week, my son kicked his father in the face.
Through the womb.
I can’t say I blame him. If someone were pushing their face up next to my space while loudly singing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,” I don’t believe I’d have a peaceful reaction. What a bizarre way to be assaulted—both for the singer and his audience—and how bizarre it was to have been the setting upon which this assault took place. It was a sudden reminder that this baby is not just an idea. He’s very real—and his due date is fast approaching.
Although I’ve known about my pregnancy since July, I’m not always aware of it. In fact, at times, I’ve totally forgotten. Some people can’t believe this. After all, I look like I’ve swallowed my own head and sprouted a new one in its place. The pregnancy has caused so many physical changes—how could I not be constantly aware of it?
It’s like this, imagine being on a long airplane flight. For hours upon hours, you’re soaring thousands of feet above the Earth. But rather than continuously marvel at this, you engross yourself in some distraction. Then, turbulence hits. Suddenly, your mid-air situation comes roaring into focus. That’s what my pregnancy has been like: a state of being that has settled into the background until something reminds me. Like a sudden jolt from within my uterus to my husband’s face.
These reminders can be overwhelming. One came just yesterday. After organizing my son’s nursery yesterday, I stepped back to observe my work. As my eyes passed over the room, it dawned on me: this was going to be my son’s new home. The little creature who, at the moment, knew me and only me as his world, would see the sunlight filter in from this window. He’d see the boats on this mobile and sleep on these blue sheets. This was all for him. Every detail. I wasn’t decorating a room. I was crafting together the pieces of his next world.
Here’s another “I’m-A-Mom-Now” moment: my husband suggested that we familiarize ourselves with our new car seat by strapping a Curious George doll into it. I practiced a few times, and then left the room. Later, I walked back in to find a little face peeking up at me from the seat, its arms reaching up as if to say, “Hold me!” My first instinct was to rush to the toy and hug it close. If anyone had told me last year that I’d one day have the urge to comfort a stuffed monkey, I’d have thought them mad.
Little boy, you aren’t even here yet, but your imprint on my own is already permanent and undeniable. I’d be lying to you if I pretended that we won’t butt heads. But I promise, throughout even the toughest of times, to remember how things were when you were waiting to be born.
