Something about a pregnant woman invites conversation, observation, and curious questions that would be considered very nosy under normal circumstances. For the most part, I normally enjoy the chatter (or on a crabby day, tolerate it compliantly). While other pregnant women complain and vent annoyance at being smiled and stared at in line at the pharmacy or questioned for the 50th time about when baby is due/if it's a boy or girl/if the baby has a name, part of me screams (inside) "JUST BE HAPPY YOU'RE PREGNANT! THERE ARE WORSE PROBLEMS YOU COULD BE HAVING!" I refuse to allow irritation at the public's curiousity of something so miraculous, so full of joy. I feel so fortunate to BE pregnant that it seems wrong to wish the attention away. I'm still part of that "other" club. The one where nothing is taken for granted, the one where complaining and bitching and moaning about the minor inconveniences that come along with pregnancy feels somehow disingenuous- a betrayal of those who are still in the journey, still wanting and hurting.
One line of conversation, however, is a problem for me. It touches a nerve, as innocent as the question is, as simple and harmless as the answer may seem to most:
"Is this your first baby?"Literally, physically, in every way that matters to anyone of aquaintance status or less, to all those people just making conversation with a pregnant woman....yes. Yes, this is our first child. This is the first baby we've seen move through the skin on my belly, the first baby to have a full name and a nursery and showers, the first baby that (we hope and pray and believe) will live with us in our home and make us a family. I know there's one right answer to the question- one proper, socially acceptable, non-insane/disturbing answer. I know the topic of loss and death is just not appropriate in casual conversation. I know I don't want to cheapen our
other babies' memories by flippantly discussing them with a stranger. TMI, right? But still....there's a pang in my heart every time I smile and answer "yes, our first". Because while he is well on his way to being our firstborn, he is
not our first baby. There are two others. Two seperate, beloved souls out there that belong here, two babies who were alive, two children we won't have the joy of holding in the hospital, or kissing way boo-boos for, or seeing off on the school bus one emotional fall morning. Some would argue they never existed, a heartless and cruel thought bred of naivity or fortunate ignorance or a belief in a definition of "life" vastly different from my own that insults me, that takes something away from me. They DID exist. They were planned for, they were loved, the sight of each beating heart was cherished on an ultrasound screen. They were celebrated and acknowledged. A steak dinner out the night I told J about our first pregnancy, our first baby on the way. We alternated between disbelieving laughter, grinning at each other across the table, and asking ourselves what, exactly, we were supposed to do next, what we needed to buy, who we needed to tell. (So innocent, so new, so trusting in the process!) The second time, we laughed and hugged and held each other close in a hotel room far from home, a positive test clutched shakily in my hand, both scared to death and ecstatic at our 2nd chance, our 2nd baby....and later that night, J surreptitiously drank his own beer and the one I'd ordered to keep our happy secret under wraps from the friends that surrounded us at the bar. A secret between the two of us, an existance only we knew of...but an existance nonetheless. So nobody can tell me they weren't real. They affected our lives. Their presence, as brief as it may have been, changed our course, changed our lives.
I don't have a point here, but when this question came up again this afternoon as the mail woman made happy chit-chat and asked with a broad smile if this baby is our first, and I smiled and told the well meaning woman "yes, this is our first"....something inside of me just....cracked. I hoped that in that moment, those other babies weren't listening. I wondered if they heard, if they thought they were forgotten. Replaced. Fading. Behind my sunglasses, tears welled in my eyes, and I excused myself to get into the safety of my house and for just a while, mourn those losses once again. Make sure they understood they're not forgotten and not denied, my tears the only offering I had to make this known. As I sat on the staircase crying, this baby inside my belly, this to-be-first
born kicked and wiggled and I felt torn. Torn between the sadness for what was to be, and the breathtaking, dizzying joyousness for what is to come in 5 short weeks or less. And I felt once more like I WILL be a better mommy to this little boy because I know how damn fortunate we will be to know him in a REAL way, a way we can touch and feel, a way the outside world understands and accepts. I'll thank him in my heart each and every day for coming to us at long last, and in times when we're stressed or tired or frustrated, I know we'll have the wisdom to understand how blessed we are for all of it. So for that, I thank our TurkeyBaby, our Grover....for all they taught me just for being, for the new depths of loving they've made me capable of.
It's Grimace. Grimace from McDonaldland. He hung with that nasty Hamburglar and the creepiest of all creeptastic pedophile clowns, Ronald.
Okay....one more. Because it also made me laugh so hard I thought I might pee myself, and because I think I once sat next to this guy at Lambeau Field:
