Recently, Girl Wonder asked how excited I was when I found out I was pregnant with her. My first response was to say I was thrilled to the moon. But that would have been a lie.
My pregnancy was not planned. In fact my plan involved not having kids, living a care-free life and traveling the world. I messed that plan up in my twenties and ended up married, confused and knocked up.
For 9 months, I was scared, fat, and farty. I had no pregnant glow and zero maternal instincts.
I bought a crib and doll-sized clothes. I painted a room. I did the things I thought a Mom-To-Be was supposed to do. As if stranded in a foreign land and trying to fit in with the natives.
I’d catch the impression of a miniature foot pushing against the inside of my stomach. I’d have an “awwww that’s my bay-be” moment. Followed by a “holy cow I’m totally gonna be all Sigourney Weaver and a bug eyed alien is gonna rip open my belly” moment.
Does Motherhood begin with the swell of your belly or when you’re skin to skin in the big bold world?
My final answer: Holding her for the very first time, something in me came undone. My joy didn’t coming from being a mother. It came from knowing I was supposed to be her mother.