Mommy’s Groove

The downside of all the sharing we do with our pregnant sisters is that it’s really hard to filter our advice and experiences as so not to allow negative emotions — fear, sadness, guilt or regret — in our own experiences to seep into the conversation. I found when I was pregnant, I was so open to everything floating by that it was easy to absorb the emotions behind the stories that were being shared in good faith (hence I donned the emotional flak jacket). How can you stop your cervix from pulling in when you hear about 32 hours of labour, petocin drips and tears which seemed never to end? It kinda burns a hole in your no-yet penned birth plan!

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I found an enormous sense of excitement in wanting to be part of the collective consciousness of motherhood as the baby inside me began to grow and my body showed signs of change. I could hear the little girl in me saying, “Here I will belong. Here I will be welcomed”. But it was as if old wounds were being brought up to heal because while I yearned to belong, there was that old companion, nervousness in my stomach. Hoping to avoid the let-down of feeling different again, I began approaching “the news” with women cautiously, listening to the personal stories while filtering for gems of knowledge and common values.

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I was questioning things from my pre-pregnancy life I had always accepted as fact. Moving into the second trimester of pregnancy, I was increasingly uncomfortable with what appeared to be popular rites of pregnancy for their lack of connection to the bigger questions of becoming someone’s mother. While I was open to learning how to behave from those who came before me, I was beginning to sense there were decisions lurking around every corner about which I knew absolutely nothing; and I had yet to scratch the surface of the medical pregnancy.

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I became acutely aware, early in my second trimester, that Planet Baby was a stage which served to transition me from being a pregnant woman to being someone’s mother. This sounds obvious — but the distinction was about the sense that it was not just about “having a baby”. I was becoming someone’s mother and it made me sit up and pay attention.

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From my office in a high tower on Bay Street, the heart of Toronto’s business world, I rarely got the idea among the millions of daily transactions and human interactions going on around me, that mothering is important.

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There it sat anchoring the room, that status symbol of expectant parents: the crib. Who could have imagined with it’s hefty price-tag and its soft whisper of “adult-time”, this most symbolic first purchase would sit empty for months as a testament to the message.

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When I was pregnant, it seemed to me that there was one irrefutable truth: my body, not my mind, knew how to develop this baby and it knew how it was going to get it out. No manner of intellectualizing was going to change how my body would labour and birth my baby. It was totally out of my hands.

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Even with my oldest, dearest friend I’m aware of holding back as I listen to her most recent progress report — she and I are at different places on the continuum of becoming a mother.

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