“It’s a girl!” my partner exclaimed, as he gently pulled our first baby from my body.
A girl. I knew it was a girl. I mean I didn’t actually know, but I knew it was because sometimes you just know these things. After nine months of anticipation, ten days past my due date, 67 hours of labor and really my whole life of wondering what it would be like if I had a baby, she was finally here. Seven pounds, six ounces and 20 inches of a being that was half of me, half of him and 100% all her.
But as she lay on my chest, mouth agape and eyes wide, I looked at her and…well…I just looked at her. I’m sure I murmured something like “Hi baby!” or “Thank you for finally joining us!” but I don’t really remember. It wasn’t significant. It wasn’t the elation of a new mother finally meeting her daughter for the first time. It wasn’t baby talk or happy tears or a smothering of kisses all over her tiny, round, slightly birth-battered face. It was just a baby.
I remember being so bewildered when I first laid eyes on her and as I continued to stare at her throughout the next few days. Who was this person? For some reason, I had envisioned birthing this chip off the old block and then immediately knowing who it was. Like “Yes! There you are. Of course it was you. I knew you all along.” But something must’ve been amiss. I must have miscalculated the mom-to-baby insta-bond because this…THIS! This was a stranger. And I was pretty sure I didn’t love it.
Yes. My own child. That I conceived, carried and brought forth into the world. I didn’t love her.
Read More