The past two months I have spent on a couch with a sleeping baby on my belly. He slept as my own little baby grew in my body developing organs and fingers, lips and a brain. Every little part of him or her growing. I call the baby blueberry because she/he was once that size. Then a raspberry, a martini olive, a prune and now a peach. I heard the baby’s heartbeat last week. Blueberry hid for a long time and an image flew by- a flash- this baby is not going to be that mellow baby I’ve been praying for. My mami laughed when I told her all the things I pray the baby will be. She has this saying hija eres madre seras. I am definitely in for it.
These past two months I have not written more than a paragraph. Movie scene are part of my thoughts. I’ve been nauseous and tired and tired and tired. How could this little blueberry already wear me out? I haven’t written because I usually write about the transformations of my life and I was not ready to tell everyone that I had a baby growing inside me. It’s now three months and there is a small bulge and my clothes definitely don’t fit me. I need new pants, new bras, new shirts because mine don’t button anymore. My life is changing. Life is constantly changing. A mother I will be, inshaAllah.
I was excited to write about this new transformation and then I was hit with the reality that my life is no longer private. It is public on display. I don’t write everything that my heart goes through, every detail of my life, but there are strangers that know about my life and I became of aware of why I write. Someone wrote me who I’ve asked several times not to contact me. She found my writing and made a comment. One I haven’t posted. Her comment was nice and thoughtful. Even though the memories of our relationship are full of pain I have always prayed that she is in a better place and that she has been able to grow and transform, like me through out the years, pain serves as the best lesson. I was taking care of my friend’s daughter, I was sitting in the darkness of her room when I read the comment over my little cell phone and I couldn’t believe it was still happening. But it wasn’t still happening because it has been 10 years now and I have let go of some stuff and it has been years since I’ve heard from her. I don’t know if she just forgets that I’ve asked her not to contact me or she just doesn’t listen. I didn’t feel safe until I left New York. Emotionally safe, I wasn’t being threatened or harmed, I just knew I had to physically get away to have more clarity. But here we are in an age that distance no longer matters. You can feel close to someone who lives 3000 miles away or across the globe because we can constantly communicate.
This is my test. I got her message the last day of my job, a few days before a long vacation, the night that I began looking forward to hours of writing, inshaAllah. I got her message and I had a choice either let it affect me and stop writing about things I care about and have my children wonder what happened to their writerly mother or I could just go on writing like I was looking forward to. Life on the page.
It is beautiful outside and I wonder if I should take a walk or do my laundry. I am on my couch, no baby on my belly just one growing inside me. There are stories that need to be written. Birds chirping outside love songs to settle my heart. A walk sounds pretty good.