Dear baby in my belly (part 1)

*This is an excerpt from a TTBG book that is being gestated right now and you are the very first to get a glimpse…

 

Dear baby in my belly,

I am not that into you. When I think of you I feel loss.

 Because you will want so many things from me.

All I can think about is all the books I need to buy, all the supplies.

The piles of shit that will accumulate in my house.

The diapers holding all those piles of shit.

 And all the time I will lose from doing more important things because I am always busy cleaning up after you.

 I am responsible now.

Stuck. I have no choice.

I have lost that too.

 Because it’s always been about me and now it won’t be. And that is not supposed to sound selfish and petulant. It’s just the truth.

 I’m sorry, I didn’t plan it this way. I’m doing my best and I guess I already suck.

Love,

Mom

I don’t talk about this terror to anyone. I cry about it once in awhile to my fiancé in the shower but I have never been one for casual emotions at the best of times so he is assuming it’s just the extra hormones added on top of his drama queen girlfriend.

I look in the mirror and I don’t feel beautiful and glowing. I’m a fat piece of shit with more “chin hair” arriving daily than I thought ever possible so we may as well call it a full blown goatee and my moles are doubling in size. When I feel it kick for the first time I do not bond with the thing like the books say I will, instead it feels like an alien is farting inside me.

As the months go on I am not just a little ambivalent towards the baby growing inside me, I am increasingly disconnected and terrified of it.

This is not a “miracle.” I am not feeling the “magic” the fuckers in my pre-natal class talk about while they spread themselves over pleather couches groaning about leg cramps and munching into their Tupperware containers filled with nuts.

“What do you mama’s miss most in your pregnancy?” the group leader asks us.

“Sashimi” one stupid bitch giggles.

“I miss the way my jeans fit” another jokes.

“But, it’s worth it missing all those things right?” the leader says brightly “because you are taking care of the health of your precious little baby.”

“I miss smoking” I say with a scowl. What I don’t miss is pot cookies, because I am high on them right now- but I don’t tell the group that.

There is a death going on. With this birth comes the loss of the only life I have ever known and I am grieving it.

I wonder, as I look around the room full of pregnant women. Why are we not talking about this sadness together? Am I the only one feeling it?

I scan the circle and compare myself to the others. One has her hand on her belly, absentmindedly stroking it. One is smiling like a dumb clown.

At night I watch my handsome man sleep and I am overcome with sadness that it’s not going to be just the two of us anymore. We are going to have to share our love.

And I feel horribly guilty.

That the baby can feel my fear.

That I am already fucking it up.

I don’t talk to my belly like I am “supposed to” either, instead, when I feel the little guy wriggle around I cry out “gross” and “ew” not on purpose, it’s just my honest reaction. All the action going on inside is disconcerting. Also, pictures of babies and moms make me uncomfortable, these placid women who are utterly content in their roles of caretaker. Boxes of diapers in grocery stores get to me the most with the pictures of moms changing poopy diapers with such serenity. “It’s fucking shit coming out of their butt” I think “what is peaceful about that?” I feel stifled and controlled by the photos.

So the prayer at the beginning of the trip was- I want to get connected to this baby.

We flew to Kauai for our pre-baby, pre-wedding honeymoon. We put the entire trip on credit. If there is one thing I believe in wracking up debt for- it’s travel.

When we arrive, after a few days of checking out the town, sleeping in and peeing in a bucket beside our bed because I was too lazy to go all the way to the bathroom I go to a hypnotherapist and she does what I guess I would call “cool regression therapy” on me.

In a room full of crystal singing bowls she lays me down on a crushed amethyst crystal mat and we begin.

She takes me way down deep until I am almost sleeping.

There is a thick and strong brick sitting on my chest.

“Why is the brick there?” she asks.

“To protect me from pain.”

“Can the brick transform or leave?” She asks.

“Yes. It can.”

“Does it want to transform or leave?”

It wants to transform.

At her suggestion the brick begins to melt into an iridescent, amorphous blob that travels around my back down to the base of my spine. It sits at my sacrum, softly padding it. The colors are prismatic and light infused, like a psychedelic queen of the jellyfishes.

“What is the jellyfish there for?” She asks.

“It is my wellspring. Just like the brick was my protection, this instead is my energy source” my disembodied voice says.

“The jellyfish is eternal and will never deplete. I can do more and be more now.”

Because that is my greatest fear.

That with this baby comes my demise. No more energy for my own dreams or drive. Only pee and poo.

“How does this feel?” she asks me.

“Motherhood is a higher level of consciousness” I respond.  “It actually makes what I want more attainable because I have more energy for it now.”

“Now put your hands on your belly and let the baby give you a message” she says.

“I am made of you. Anything you are scared of or dislike is not me, it’s your brain. I am here to help you get closer to what you long for. I’m your little helper. I’m just more of who you want to be” the baby says. “Please don’t be scared of me. I am made of you”.

She plays the crystal bowls for a while which brings me back to myself. I stretch and roll off the mat. All of a sudden I feel alive. I’m very, very  awake….