Paradox

I didn’t want this. 

I did not want this. 

I didn’t want the exhaustion, the nausea, the changes to my form. But mostly, I didn’t want another child. I can hardly handle the two I have. Other moms are fine. But not me. 

Never me. 

I know when it happened. The exact moment in time. 

It was beautiful. 

It was special. 

I don’t know the other four moments of conception. But I do know this one. And I knew it immediately. 

Within a week I noticed changes. 

Hints of nausea that wouldn’t abate. Exhaustion that could not be wiped through sleep. I put off taking a test even as my flow was late because I knew it would be positive. I was not yet ready to face the reality.

With the positive test came tears and the weight of dread as I faced all that was to come. 

I knew I would be sick (and I was with great severity). 

I knew I would grow moody and sensitive. 

I knew I would grow fat. 

Yes. Fat.

And shame permeated as I realised I would be seen in such an undesirable state. I live in a new country, a new city, a new church, and all of these people would see me expand. 

I sobbed the first time I left the house after my month of debilitating sickness. The mortification of my changing body was too much. I have been active, I have eaten sensibly, and yet my body is determined to grow. 

My face has ballooned. 

My arms turned to sausages. 

My legs became stumps. 

And then I feel the shame for caring about an image, for carrying so much pride in the way others see me. 

Within all of these feelings is a lack of belonging. As a married evangelical woman in a heterosexual marriage, I am supposed to delight in children. Over recent years I’ve seen statements and views from peers saying a woman’s place is in the home, with her children, as a homemaker and a mother. 

I love making a home. 

I adore my children. 

But I am drowning. 

I want to feel free. 

I love writing, painting, reading, and exploring new places. I love being home, but I do not like chaos. I do not function well among the noise of littles. 

It is not fair that following a true moment of passion, so rare for us, my life—as the woman—becomes shadowed by a years-long consequence. One night, a few minutes, and my life and body are forever altered. Mornings in the cafe—writing and reading—will soon be a distant memory. My body that could run, lift, and push limits is slower, weaker, larger. Full nights of rest, a predictable schedule, bodily autonomy—all lost. One single moment of passion, so rare for us, and for nearly three years my body, my dreams, will bear the cost.

I can’t help but think of other women who find themselves with child but in a different stage of life. I have a partner. We are stable. I have a home and a life that, despite my misgivings, can afford to bear a new child. What about those women who do not have those things? Who, because of a night of passion (or sometimes violence) must face the reality of a changed life, a changed status, a changed body, a changed career? 

I know I will love this child. 

I will hold her to my breast and cherish her little form. 

I will protect her, nourish her, delight in her. 

And in the process, my dreams will be stagnant. 

It is possible to hold both joy and grief at once. 

I rejoice in a thus-far healthy pregnancy. I sit in awe of a conception that can only be divine. I delight in the thought of a new life in our family, a sister for my two eldest, a little beam of light within the grey days of parenting. 

I grieve the shift in my vision for our time as expats. I regret the loss of freedom that will close me in. I resent my body for the way it will continue to change. 

These are all pieces within the beautiful paradox of parenthood. 

The lowest of lows, and the highest of highs.