sacred indignities

the paradoxes of late pregnancy

A few weeks ago, while brushing my teeth in my underpants, I felt a little gnat land on my ass. And then another and another. Little pinpricks of mayflies in July. I turned around, swishing foam in my mouth and saw three imps on the edge of the bathtub with golf tees in their fists, giggling. They’d been poking me with the tapered sticks, and not softly. I’d been focused on another source of discomfort—the baby, a tiny Jamie Tartt, kicking my insides.

“Mom,” one of the boys marveled, raising his eyebrows at my butt. “It’s humungous.”

“It should be,” I explained, turning in the mirror, trying to count the red marks. How many times had I been poked? “It has to counterbalance all of this,” I put my hand lovingly on my outie, which reminds me of one of those rubber dolls you squeeze to pop its eyes out.

At thirty-four weeks, my lumps have lumps. My Achilles tendons have cellulite. This extra body is essential and utilitarian, and it makes me proud. But carrying it around highlights one of the many ironies of this last stretch of pregnancy: it’s strange to get larger and larger yet feel ever-more fragile. What a privilege to grow a human—I love this process. But also, I am freaked.

I get a lot of public support—seats are vacated, doors are opened, strangers smile. But my heroism is my vulnerability, and my dignity wanes. I don’t walk, I waddle. I have become a noisy nose-breather and I wake myself up at night, choking on nothing. Unless I lean against a wall, I tumble sideways when I put on my shoes. I could mitigate the risk by sitting, but then I might not be able to get up again.

I’ve reached the part of this journey when the cute idea of having another baby becomes a gory reality. Wait a minute, I realize at night, padding to the bathroom for the dozenth time. This thing is going to have to come OUT. The experience is nothing but concrete, but also… weirdly abstract.

I went on a rampage about a week before Max was due in 2013. I ran up and down the hallway at my mother’s house on Thanksgiving night, waving my arms in the air like Kevin from Home Alone (except I was limping and heaving) shouting WHAT HAVE I DONE, THIS PERSON DIDN’T ASK TO BE BORN! I mean who am I to make someone be born…? It is an insanely selfish choice, even as my body is marred by sacrifice.

Despite the constant companionship I have, giving birth is a strangely solitary experience. Preparing for it reminds me of the morning of my wedding, all my bridesmaids giggling and chattering while I hovered elsewhere, with a new, separate awareness. I wanted to marry Christopher with every bit of myself, just as I want to have this baby. But only one of us could make the journey to the person waiting on the other side. Only one of us was going to end the day with a whole new life.

It seems trendy now to talk about the overlap between grief and love. Nowhere have I felt the apparent paradox more than in motherhood. I can’t wait to have this baby, but I’d like to be pregnant forever.

The day after we brought Clyde home from the hospital I watched Christopher push him proudly in the stroller through Central Park, the other boys jumping and jogging alongside. I shuffled behind, my baggy stomach and empty womb swaying under a blue maternity dress. I cried from the gratitude of having another healthy baby. Nothing about giving life is guaranteed. But a cold, heavy sadness settled into me as I watched the tiny body that had once been mine belong to the world instead.

“There goes my heart,” I thought, as I’ll think again soon... “breaking and exploding.”