That's My Girl

I was at book club on Sunday night listening to several of the women talk about their new babies. Again, my stealth pregnancy makes it interesting for me to observe life as a non-pregnant woman when I'm really expecting.

One common theme was these new mothers describing how - even now, when their children are several months old - they look at them and can't believe that these children are theirs. One woman described that she wouldn't be surprised if another mother came to the door and said she was there to pick up her child.

I would have predicted that I, especially, would feel this way, too. After all, I'm not carrying this pregnancy. I'm not the one whose body is changing. I didn't experience the morning sickness or breast tenderness, and I'm not feeling movement, wearing maternity clothes. or answering questions about my expanding belly.

But I had a moment during the CVS when the technician put the ultrasound transducer on Vanessa's abdomen, and that little baby lifted her arms and reached up toward the probe.

Something happened to me in this moment. Amazement. Recognition. Love. And I knew right then, that is my child.

This is a strange thought for a dyed in the wool pro-choice, scientifically-driven, bra-burner to have. But I had it anyway. I knew we were only 13 weeks along - but dammit, I felt love for that little mass of cells. There is no other way to describe it.

Perhaps its making lemons out of lemonade, but I've always felt there was a huge advantage to starting at rock bottom. My shitty first job made me appreciate this job. Same for my shitty first office. And my shitty first city. Same with my first one-bedroom apartment. And now I'm wondering if all of the shit I've endured through the fertility process, doing it alone, and using a gestational carrier has made me appreciate my daughter even more.

Damn, I should be in great shape when Mr. Right finally shows up.