Eden Onpeng

My husband and I have been sick this week. First he was sick, and then two days later, I woke up with a swollen, irritated throat that evolved into a runny nose and then ongoing congestion and a lingering wet cough. The worst of it is over as of today. I’m glad I won’t have to give birth while suffering a cold. In between household tasks I have been laying in bed like a beached whale, resting my feet and catching my breath.

In two days, we will go to the hospital to undergo induction to give birth to our first child and son. At 39 weeks, Baby Daniel will be full term, although being induced feels like prematurely evicting him (although who knows if he’d come early anyway). I feel bad. I imagine he’s nice and warm and comfortable in there. I feel him rolling, kicking, and hiccuping. He has passed all his non-stress tests with flying colors. “Happy baby,” the nurses call him.

I picture his little hands and feet curling and kicking in the womb. I picture the nutrients being exchanged between us through the umbilical cord, which will be severed upon birth. This is the closest we will ever be linked physically, and after this point, the process of parenthood begins of raising him and slowly letting go as he grows more independent.

Although my pregnancy has come with health complications and bodily discomforts, Baby Daniel’s impending departure feels bittersweet. Is it weird to say I will miss him, even though he will be right next to me as a newborn?

This is the end of one stage (pregnancy) and the beginning of another one (new motherhood with a newborn). I am about to cross a bridge for the first time and have no idea how I feel once I’ve crossed it. I hope I will be happy. I hope the baby blues don’t hit me hard.

On the surface, life has been peaceful. Joe and I were blessed to receive so much love and support from friends and chosen family at our baby shower. The silver lining of the estrangement from my parents has been peace and the ability to grieve my sister and process my childhood trauma in therapy.  

I think of my mother, and her dark mood swings and constant meltdowns surrounding the times of her pregnancies and births of my little brother and sister. My father told me as a child that she’d tried to kill herself when she was pregnant with me. I think of how I used to resent my baby sister (13 years my junior) because of how angry and abusive my mother became toward me during her pregnancy. I believe my sister was a surprise baby, which could have contributed to my mother’s extra unhappiness. “I wish I’d aborted you,” my mother would say when trying to nurse her to sleep.

Baby Daniel has been shy in ultrasounds all pregnancy—his hands are always in front of his face or he is turned away. We’ve been unable to get a clear 3D shot of him, so his face, beyond the basic outline, is mostly a mystery. I wonder how it will feel like to hold him in my arms, and to behold his little face—part me, and part Joe. Will he be a big baby or a regular-sized baby? A colicky baby or a chill baby? So much of Baby Daniel is unknown and abstract to me right now, aside from when we poke at each other through my tummy. I guess I won’t have a lot of answers until we are holding Baby Daniel in our arms and marveling at his sleeping form, how fragile, precious, and tiny he is, in our big, wide world.