You have no idea what will happen when you hold a baby for the first time. But, something in you says that you need this. This is what true happiness looks like. Yes!
Gosh, maybe your marriage will improve if he becomes a dad. I mean, it might be good now, but surely, if you have one of these, things would get even better, right?
Maybe he will become more responsible? Maybe he will find more meaning in his life, his job, even, if he is providing for a child…a helpless little angel.
Maybe he will be happier if he has a little bundle of joy to come home to every night. Maybe…
…
You get pregnant, but within the first weeks, you don’t know. Eventually, two lines that show up validate your queasy stomach, your exhaustion. You are thrilled.
You feel high like never before. This is the dream, you think.
No matter what, in those next weeks, you might feel sick, but it doesn’t matter. You are growing a baby. This is what vulnerability and power look like, woven together, into a miracle.
You feel highs as you hear the heartbeat. This is the BEST THING EVER, you think.
But the high gets even greater when you see them for the first time, in real time, in YOUR belly, in a sonogram. This is surely the best thing ever!
Your belly grows, people offer to open doors, pick up things for you, even feed you! This is amazing, you think!
Then it’s time. Your body has decided to eject this little bundle into the arms of a person who is paid good money to show up for you. It works. The baby is here.
Whether and IV or sheer willpower get you to this point, you are holding a miracle. You hold said miracle while your body gets sewn back up, cramps like the devil himself, and you try to nurse them. You don’t really even notice the pain in that moment. The high is too damn high. It’s never going to be better than this, you think.
You figure out nursing, after nights of frustrated sleep and baby’s tears. It’s easy now, and the biochemical realm of your body is chill…happy to be doing what it was made to do. You don’t even know how high you are now. It’s just normal. Every few hours, you get a hit, but there is no low anymore. It’s just wave after wave of happy feels.
…
They learn to roll over! Take a video! Surely the world will want to see this! It’s the best thing ever!
They learn how to sit up, to crawl…then to walk. OMG, stop the presses! Nothing can compare to this!
This child…that was made in your belly, is doing this miraculous thing…walking!
They talk, they dance, they sing…then they get on the bus. Each milestone is another high. Your pride in this little bundle containing half your genetic coding (give or take a tenth of a percentage or two) is doing amazing things.
The highs just keep coming.
Then write their name, read I Am Sam, and make friends. You can hardly contain all the joy. It is more beautiful than you had imagined.
…
Then their bodies begin to change. You are excited for them, but terrified in the same breath. That little body isn’t so little anymore. But it is doing things like the backstroke, dribbling a soccer ball, or playing a minuet on the piano.
The highs aren’t so high anymore. We are being weaned off of the drug.
They reach high school and life gets complicated. But, they are still working hard and doing well enough. You hear about their heartbreaks and challenges. But, you…you are hearing about them. They trust you and that high beats all others. You mean something to them…those little bundles all grown up.
But the high is fast and hard and followed with lots of lows. The lows of being yelled at, not being respected, and called names, even. By those sweet little bundles of joy.
You are looking at those highs like never before…are they really worth it?
…
Then you start to visit colleges with them. You are excited, but only for them. You get second-hand-high watching them all giddy, curious, and apprehensive. This is pretty great, you think. It’s just not that great.
The lows are shit…not “the shit”. And they outnumber the highs like the ratio of the stars to the moon herself. It’s just not that great.
The long weaning off of the highs of motherhood is brutal. The pain comes in waves and seems unending. Because…
Even after they are gone, happily doing their lives, they will call home. They will tell you about their day, their friends, the party they went to. They will tell you about their classes, their stupid boyfriends, and what they are eating.
They love you. And that is the greatest high ever.
But, it is fleeting. Days and weeks pass between calls sometimes. You get no hits between.
They have been in control of your highs for years.
You consented to your own drug use without any control of the source of your highs.
Sucks to be you.
But you will keep hoping for those phone calls. You will keep hoping they will come home for Christmas. You keep hoping for that one, better-than-ever high.
And then you get it. You are going to be a grandma! And the cycle continues.
…
PS. My life as a pregnant and young mother was nothing like this, either. It’s a story — a work of fiction.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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From The Good Men Project on Medium
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