The last time I lay down at the end of a yoga class
I had to shift the weight of my body,
and curl up on my side.
I rested my right cheek on a blanket,
my left hand on my belly
to see if I could feel you moving inside of me,
craving reassurance that you were okay –
not knowing then how much that desire,
or compulsion
would grow once you were here.
I wanted you to feel
the warmth of my hand sending you love,
from one world to another –
an introduction to what I hoped
would always be a gentle touch.
An unspoken promise
that I would do my best
to keep you safe,
and shield you from harm.
In the warm and sweaty silence
I prayed
that you couldn’t feel
my fears, my paranoia –
that I might not enjoy being a mom,
that it’s always been a role
I’ve been indifferent to taking on.
That I’d resent you
for my lack of freedom,
or feel like a prisoner in my own home.
That you’d sense my discomfort
when other mothers said,
“You’ll never know such an intense bond!”
It’s only now, six weeks later,
as again, I lay down here
and place both hands on my belly
that I’m able to feel.
All of the trauma my body has been through –
the empty space
under my loose skin.
The numbness surrounding the scar
where they pulled you out
and your crying began.
I remember that moment so clearly –
your dad and I exchanging a look
of shock and “Oh my God!” disbelief;
He’s here,
our son –
our perspectives were shook.
All of my worries disappeared
when the nurse put you down
on my chest.
I watched in wonder
as your warm little body
wiggled its way to my breast.
Those first nights all seem like a blur –
I don’t know how we kept you alive.
I told your dad to go home and sleep,
but he refused to leave our side.
I’d gaze at your face
for hours in awe –
I was totally transfixed.
And now that I know you
I’m so grateful
We get to have this experience.
All of the sleepless nights,
trying so hard to do my best,
so many new things to learn,
and visits with family and friends.
Nursing and pumping
and changing and lifting –
It’s hard on my 40-year old back!
You pee and poop
and spit up on us,
but all we do is laugh.
Balancing job number one and two
while trying to still be
fun and kind –
a supportive partner
who doesn’t need to control
every little thing
so convinced that I’m right.
And yes it’s true
what those moms said,
I’ve never known this kind of love,
but the anxiety has grown
in equal proportions,
which nobody warns you of!
I’ve never felt so vulnerable before –
like, nothing can ever happen
to you or your dad.
And the intensity of it all
just hits me at once,
in the warm and sweaty silence
at the end of a yoga class.