The baby's early kicks are light but
noticeable. The book calls them flutters, and they are. They're
different, too, though. It's possible to feel them when I'm standing
still, or when I've sat or laid down. Other times they're
unnoticeable, if I'm moving or busy doing something.
But as soon as I'm still they're
there—little taps, faint shiftings, the actual sensation
comprehended a full second after it happens. It's like a slight
buckling of a thin piece of plastic, or thick cloth giving way. I
always think it's the belly-band on these bizarro pregnancy pants,
that it's the elastic fabric lapping over itself for a moment. It
happens too regularly, though, and with intention.
The intention is comprehended, like the
physical sensation, a beat after it happens. It's impossible to know
what is happening from the inside perspective. I don't know if he's
actually kicking or punching, or just changing positions. It's an
incredibly unique sensation, though, to be made aware of a life
within, a perspective radically different from your own. It's one of
the few times I've ever been aware of something growing in me. The
rate at which the growth happens is so quick that you can't help but
notice it.
At work I hardly talk about it unless
someone asks. At home it has become somewhat burdensome to talk
about it. In the early months the spouse's level of interest and
concern is high, but at this point there is a turning-inward to one's
own processes, fears and agendas. He works diligently on huge projects, and part of him is turned away from me. This is necessary, I know, to survive
the constant awareness of approaching change, of the loss of things
we will never get back.
In this way pregnancy reminds me, again
and again, of a strange disease. So much of the changes are similar
to cancer: I have a growth inside me; I go to the doctor a lot; I buy
special, unattractive clothing and equipment; my body becomes
distorted; I lose certain physical abilities.
Almost all of the attitudes towards my
condition are positive. Our culture holds a special place for
pregnant women. We are put on a sort of pedestal, but it is mostly
positive (as opposed to a person who has become suddenly disabled, or
has suffered a death in the family). It's still a transitional state
of sorts that's recognized from without. You're allowed (even
expected) to have some odd behaviors. You're watched like a walrus
in a tank.
If you're lucky enough to have a
spouse, and an involved one at that, they will be a tremendous
support. But even they can get overloaded with the implications of
all of it sometimes. They have to nurture themselves, and you have
to take care of them. You're doing a lot of mothering these days.
People come to you with this need to be taken care of or soothed, and
it's a new role. You stare out of your eyes, feeling like the same
person you were at the start, before your body became this lumpy,
ever-increasing entity. You stare at them because you can't see
yourself or what they see in you. And through these interactions you
learn to be whatever kind of mother you're going to be.
Some days it feels like walking on
stilts high in the air. The only ones who might understand are those
who have gone through it, and even their experiences are different
from yours, so you're just alone. It's like grief, except it's
supposed to feel like joy. And sometimes it does feel happy, and you
feel okay, like you can do it and nothing will stop you.
Because a lot of people are taking care
of you, too, so many that it feels frighteningly undeserved—those
who say understanding things and help you talk about
it. Maternity clothes from a generous friend. Older women who
mother you before you're even aware that you've asked for it. Kind
men who relay their own experiences as husbands of pregnant women,
and are full of funny warnings and concerns. Their experiences come
out of them unbidden, little flags waving in your direction, all
this love and stories from people around you. The doctors hear your
questions and watch your progress, your tracks in the sand
indistinguishable from those who've come before you.
You sift through the detritus of many dreams looking for clues of what you're doing right, or wrong,
and where to go from here. The dream about some chemical required to produce rayon. The dream about impossible change happening in the old house. Several dreams where no one believes you, and you start to not believe yourself. The dream about participating in a family ritual, putting on a helmet, your mother braiding your hair around an old tin cup.
You hope to keep some perspective, like in the space dreams where you float from location to location, checking in and hearing the complaints of the inhabitants. You hope to inhabit the body you share with the little one, but also to be above it all somehow.
