At 32 weeks pregnant, I’m enjoying this season of life more than I thought I would. Maybe it’s because of all the attention I’m getting - people love a pregnant woman - I feel very worshiped. But more than that, each day I am challenged to tap into a higher version of myself, the person this baby is calling me to be. How I speak to my partner, how I communicate with my dogs, how I tend to our house, how I show up at work, how I check in with my family. It has permeated the fabric of my life. It’s what everyone tells you will happen, but I didn’t think I would enjoy it so much. I liked to believe I was the kind of person who didn’t need that kind of extrinsic motivation to be a good person, and maybe “need” isn’t the right word - I just feel more aware, more inspired, and closer to this version of me. Of course it still feels like a chore in certain ways, especially after a long week of work or a day when my body is not feeling well. But I find myself looking for the good, for the joy, in more moments than I did pre-pregnancy. I was recently reminded via Rich Roll that “it takes gumption and courage to be optimistic.” Cynicism is the easy way out, it’s lazy. In my 20s it was witty; in my 30s, it’s honestly kind of boring.
Don’t think I’ve become this holy mother, composed and gentle and saccharine. No, I’m still feisty and full of mistakes that pour out of me in the middle in the night as I scream at my dogs to stop barking at the rowdy neighbors, stomp and slam back to bed, and cuss my husband for “always” making me be the one to get up, rattling off a list of other tasks he fell short to complete this week. Witching hour puts me under some soporific illusion that pointing out all of his incompetencies is going to magically make our relationship stronger and deeper, the very desire I plead to the Universe the following morning as I wake up with the sun, before he does, and see him sleeping, overwhelmed with emotion that this person still chooses to stay with me. I swear on my remorse that I will not nag him anymore, that I will accept him as the person he is, that I will only encourage him to be more of himself, that I will not keep score anymore. Upon waking he always forgives me, a trait I’ve found so healing amidst the “sorry isn’t good enough” narrative I grew up in, though after seven years I sometimes question whether the forgiveness is more diplomatic than sincere.
Last week I killed an injured bee. I try not to kill bugs anymore, but I panicked when my dog took interest in it crawling on the patio, and I acted out of fear, squashing it instead of offering it some sugar water. I make note next time I may have a curious toddler with me, and I need to use it as a learning opportunity, an All Creatures Great and Small, kind of moment.
And don’t forget the rage that so effortlessly escapes my body (it scares me sometimes) directed at the dogs when I am overstimulated by the sound of their licking, barking, snoring, nails tapping, the smells embedded in our carpets and furniture, the hair and dander and literal dirt they track in through the dog door. But then a slow Sunday morning rolls around and I am content in my “dirty” house, reminded we are all animals and dirt is better than the chemicals that society tries to sell me. I kick off my shoes and hope for no hookworms, and whisper under my breath, “better than cancer”.
When I let go, when I remember my breath, when I slow down and look at my lovely life, sun streaming in, laundry tossing in the wash, coffee brewing, dogs prancing through the backyard we’ve surrendered to a dandelion field, baby kicking, I am just so happy and hopeful for what is and what’s next. Even though economic disparity, even though the climate changes are looming, even though my baby may not grow up breathing the same quality of air I’ve had, even though artificial intelligence feels scary right now, even though my family has trauma. Even though, even though, even though, as all generations have said before me.
Love and Light and everything in between,
Chan