Motherhood is something you grow into. I hated being a mother at first. I liked the idea of mothering, but I didn’t like the fact that I had to give up my youth–my flat belly, my smooth skin, my free time–for it. But motherhood, once it comes, grows fast on your body. You notice the change week by week, and you eventually yield to its irresistible will to live.
Into the 18th week, the puff on my belly grows into a more obvious bump. Soon after, the baby’s movement becomes noticeable. The little fluttering or pulsing that comes and goes tells you that something is living inside, something with its own life that’s out of your control. I still panic about my fading youth. I regret not taking a better picture of how I looked before this thing invaded into my body and changed it permanently.
The other day, my husband finally agreed to take a set of photos with me to record our body shapes before the greater change came. I tried to suck my belly in to imitate how I looked half year ago. In some photos, my belly was strangely going in. In most, the roundness was there, round like a baby’s face–it didn’t look like aging; it looked like youth itself.
I still worry how I will confront my body right after the delivery. Will I be disappointed, shocked, or relieved? With my husband I watched the documentary The Beginning of Life the other night. One woman, a non-expert, said some plain words but she was so emotional that tears just welled up in her eyes. She was simply overcome by the “depth of love” she felt for her child. “I can’t believe I went through so much just to hold her in my arms.” That moment, I was more hopeful that the moment of holding the child could defeat any fear.
That movie was not as educational as I hoped, but it did instill in us a strong dose of parental love. When a dad described how he was his child’s playground, my husband said the movie made him cry a lot. I was surprised he, who rarely cried when watching movies, would be touched by such ordinary sharing of parents. I knew he would be a good father, and we would be good parents.
Though internally I’m still wrestling with the idea of becoming a mother–a no-longer-young woman–to the outside I’m proud to show my difference. I’m both different and not different. I’m going through something almost every other women can go through. But that makes me all the more proud. I didn’t have to earn this. I was born into this. I was born to be a mother, to carry a seed of love planted by me and someone I love.
So I proudly tried on my maternity pants. I didn’t mind my white sweater that wrapped tight around my protruding belly. At a public lecture last night I sat there and felt the baby move, not sure excited by the Coke or the speaker. I let my hands lay on it, let the roundness claim its shape. I rubbed it like a pregnant woman would do. I wasn’t showing much yet, but after the event, the organizer who was sitting two seats away whispered to me, “Good luck in August!” It turned out she had confirmed with my husband I was expecting. “How do you know?” “I’m a mom!” Her adult daughter was sitting in the back of the hall.
Thinking back I might have intentionally called attention to my baby, and that woman, being a mother, instantly picked up the signal. I wonder why I was proud. It was as if I was sitting in the crowd as a nobody, but with a secret language inside me, I was somebody. That secret language gave me comfort and connection, bridging me to something larger that my mind doesn’t know yet.