A lot of my identity is wrapped up in being capable. Whatever needs to be done, I can handle it. I can lift it, carry it, drive it, feed it, pay for it, process it, write it, cook it, clean it, remove it, hide it, reserve it, finish it, present it, wrap it, talk about it, put it away, whatever. Except for lately, that is. Lately I feel...fragile. Breakable. Frail. Delicate. And I don't like it one bit.


I think I've pretty well established here that I'm not one of those women who finds pregnancy to be a charming state. I don't glow. I don't feel beautiful or strong or at one with nature. I feel shitty. And I feel less than capable. How can it be that the one thing that I can do that's the most womanly makes me feel less than who I am?


When I was pregnant with my son a woman I worked with tried valiantly to convince me to start a pregnancy journal so that I would always remember how I felt during "this special time." I responded that my first act of maternal love would be to forget how I felt so that I could get over any lingering resentment I felt toward a child whose very creation rendered me so utterly ill, so incapable in so many ways. Saying those words I felt certain would doom me to any number of calamities. This is what befalls a woman who bemoans her pregnancy the universe would say, but I couldn't help myself. The gift of a healthy child cost me a lot and I was angry.


This time around things are a bit different, if only because I now understand that it is possible to love a child whose existance began with such despair. It's possible to love that child madly and I have no doubts about my ability to mother well this babe growing inside of me. Still, I haven't "announced" really, despite my rapidly growing belly. I don't want to hear the congratulations, with the expectations that I'll smile beatifically in return. I don't want to talk about nursery plans or names or the terrible state of maternity fashion. I want to not feel cheated - of a Hallmark gestation, of a "Baby Story" narrative of fun and happiness and discovery, of a Toni Braxton-esque stretch-mark- and vomit-free pregnancy suitable for documentation in the mainstream popular press. When my husband rests his hand low on my stomach waiting for those first kicks and swirls I want to want him there. Most of all, I just want to be me again. Me, strong and capable, with a husband and a toddler and, yes, a baby.