Baby got Back

I woke up this morning and noticed something was missing... its that perky little division that separates my thigh from my buttocks, the playful concatenate indentation merging a taut basketball derrière with sleek slender thighs, perfectly formed for loping about like a gazelle on the Serengetti plains. It has been replaced with deeply dimpled cottage cheese like folds of flesh and a zaftig saddle of boot-ay that makes Beyoncé look downright anorexic and subsequently me feel more heifer than gazelle like.

This week I am confronting the reality that I am undergoing the most radical change my body has experienced since first sprouting breast buds at 13. And accompanying this is a sense of grief that I am losing a part of my womanhood. It took me a long time to love this body, to appreciate inhabiting my femininity, my sexuality, and frankly, learning how to enjoy flaunting it, playing with it, embracing it, inviting people to enjoy it and telling others to piss off. As I am writing this I remember my first date with Marc... I pulled out the big guns and wore my lacy black tank top under a tight hot pink dress. Marc's eyes were drawn to the swelling apex of my bossom the way gravity is drawn into a black hole. And you know what? I instantaneously loved the way he looked at me. It was not lascivious or intrusive, but appreciative and exciting, and in that moment began an incredibly passionate relationship with him that has only gotten better and amazing over time... But hold the phone, I got pregnant and well... he looks at me differently now, and I feel differently so I wonder: is this it? Is my time as a hot sexy babe over? Am I now a nurturing wholesome voluptuous sexually neutral earth mother? What does it mean to be a sexual being and pregnant? What does it mean for my breasts to be getting so big, not because I splurged 60 grand on a fabulous boob job but because they are preparing to create milk to feed a new life? I am irrevocably entering into a world where my sexuality is changing and my libido will undergo an alteration that is beyond what my ego may desire. The biophysical and psychosocial realities of being a woman, pregnant and becoming a parent -- a mother -- are undeniably reshaping me. I am wondering, how do I meet these changes and feel confident about myself when for so long, I had lived in this body that I experienced as intensely sexy, fun, free, thin, shapely, playful, intelligent and most significantly MINE.

I've know all about MILFS and yummy mummies, I see them scampering about on West 4th frolicking at the Starbucks in their Juicy Couture pants, blond hair extensions, Louis Vuitton diaper bags, and collagen lip injections. I've also seen women who naturally exude a confident sexy quality post-birthing, as though giving birth, being a mother and sexual verve comes as natural to them as breathing. The fact is I want to be like these latter women who have an ingenerate wonderful ease about them, like walking human poetry... but will I be like that? I could dress up and wear clothes that say "Hi I am a mother and I am sexy" but will I feel that way? When I get home and exit public space, will I feel like a hot mama or a libidoless dairy farm?

I realise part of my feelings about my body are vanity but at the same time I want to honour the fact I had the freedom to be an openly sexual being in a context and social conditions where I was not going to stoned to death for exposing my face and hair, or shamed by a religion, or have acid thrown in my face because I wanted an education, or set on fire because of male "honour" -- where I am not constrained by strict rules of sexual conduct such that I've had the extraordinary freedom of being with different people, sharing in that journey of sexual exploration and identity formation. I honour that in having these experiences I know why Marc and I are such a great fit, I know how to work it, to nurture it and to cherish it. So hell ya it's scary to think the sexuality piece might profoundly shift. A piece that has been a cornerstone of our relationship, a piece I revere so deeply that I now feel in some way is slipping away from me.

So searching for my ass is commensurate to this transition from knowing myself as a sexual being into an inchoate pregnant/mother/sexual identity. Here I am, constructing a sense of self through a period of transition whose end point I can't see, whose path I can't predict, and whose boundaries I can't define. In many ways the sexuality I know and experience feels antipodean to an identity of motherhood and yet from a certain standpoint pregnancy is inarguably the consummation of sexuality and motherhood is its offspring. Ay, there's the rub. Being a mother is not anything I ever dreamed about, I didn't have an a priori definition of motherhood ready to go when the pregnancy test gave the two thumbs up. Motherhood is not the pinnacle experience of my life's destiny. It is no accident I chose consciously to delay this long. I was deeply satisfied nourishing my own growth and development as a human being, partaking in the experience of education, relationships, living abroad and the intellectual, emotional and spiritual growth that comes with the expansion of personal horizons. And there within I have great hope for our child. This child, this little human being is not a replacement for something I had, it is not a proxy for what I haven't had, it's not an accessory to my ego, it is not an object, she or he is not my property, he or she will not be some possession I will use to fill up an emotional vacuum inside of me. This child is going to be a little individual. Thus the beauty of this process is it provides Marc and I a golden opportunity to introduce a human being to the world. To provide a foundation and set of guidelines our child can employ, supporting him or her to navigate the complexities of modern human life.

But just because I'm giving birth to a new life doesn't mean I stop being Liz, I will not efface my sense of self and sacrifice my Lizness at the altar of some antiquated definition of motherhood as "no-self". What good am I to a child if I erase myself? But I also know at times my "self" will not be at the forefront of my psyche or be the focus of all my attention. I've had the luxury for most of my adult life to think self indulgently about myself. So what happens to me when this human being arrives and becomes embedded in my psyche and in my heart? I just don't know... The fact is I am already becoming a different Liz, not erasing but shifting in an enigmatic and at times deeply unsettling way. The fact is, some days I wake up and I just don't know who that different Liz is going to be.

Once Upon a Time.

So my friend Ashley (http://akwilly.blogspot.com/) told me I should write a blog because I write well. However having read many people's blogs I realise that is actually not a prerequisite to writing a blog (not directed at you Ashley). I woke up this morning, or rather I got an elbow in my kidney and snoring in my ear from my unrousable fiancé who at this moment is sawing logs, god bless his pickled liver... anyway I woke up this morning and began reading Ashley's blog and thought to myself, hey this could be fun, I like reading about Ashley and in mentioning her in my blog I hope thus she will mention me! So this is a flagrant act of narcissism.

However in all sincerity why write a blog? If not for the simple act of catharsis of putting (sic) pencil to paper and revealing my thoughts to my community of friends and family, then for the ability to maintain a historical archive of this rather extraordinary journey into motherhood. But oooo boring snooze zzzzzzz... I say the word mother and I feel an overwhelming urge to take a nap. My therapist says that when we talk about difficult subjects we are not ready to face, a common defence mechanism is to fall asleep. I say bully to defense mechanisms (other defense mechanisms include neurosis, intellectualism, humour, regression and the one I most often encounter in people -- repression and reaction formation). NOTE: you will be tested later on your knowledge of defense mechanisms.

But actually deep inside, I want to gossip about family and friends but if I talk about my family, well I enter into forbidden territory and need to weigh my rather infantile desire to complain with having to be a reasonable adult and accept that people are the way they are, look past whatever behvaioural details and take notice of the love and generosity that exists. Yet, having been trained in the ancient art of therapy I can smell family dysfunction at 20 paces, I feel a tingling sensation at the base of my spine when I am in the presence of triangulation, my ears start ringing when I can smell the brimstone of enmeshment AND using the powers of the force (for those who are therapists have a high mitchlorian count, we are much like Jedi) I can see through people's armour and recognise their weapon of choice. For example, the ever piercing dagger of "guilt trip", the bitter nostrum of "I'm your mother you should listen me", the velvety seduction of "we love you, but...", the infuriating "I'm her mother and I can say whatever I want" and who can forget the classic paternalism of "you shouldn't be doing that, we know better...". And what do I learn from this? Will our child when he or she gets married and bring home their future soul mate who when first setting eyes on me will think "gadzukes I have inherited a Monster in Law!!!" If history tells the tale then I suppose I am the latest in a long line of in-law sagas which extends a unbroken chain undoubtedly back to caveman days where they would argue about how to slaughter a mammoth, how to skin a rabbit, how to cure meat, how to properly gather berries and I can almost hear the echo through time of "NO that's not how you start a fire you caveman, here give me those stones you useless neanderthal!!!!". But why do I get so triggered? why do I even care what family thinks and says about me? well because they are my family!!!! and in writing this there is simply no solution. Thus I shall I suppose continue this experiment and try to find ways to constructively channel my energies without offending or being self serving.

At this moment Marc is still snoring. It sounds a bit like a grist mill and a jet engine. I count my blessings... at least he's alive.

However if I am completely honest with myself, I'd rather have my family than be alone, I'd rather have my mother than be motherless. I'd rather have my in laws because without them I wouldn't have Marc, without them I'd have a lot less support and not be able to experience their world, and their values. One of the great things about growing up is learning that at a certain level it doesn't matter how my families act, what they do, right or wrong, stupid or enlightened, I just love them because they are my family, they are loyal, they are fierce and would I really be so different were I in their shoes???. It's not always logical, it's not always rational and certainly not always beneficial but as my grandmother always taught me, you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. So upon retrospect I think any vinegar I feel I should be let go for, the temporary satisfaction that comes with whining about family would be replaced by the dull ache of feeling foolish and childish. The reality is I am about to encounter the other side of a fence, a developmental mile post in many people's life... the parent side of the fence, the mother side of the fence, the married side of the fence. Nothing triggers me more than the words Motherhood, Wife, and Daughter in Law. How do I claim those roles as my own, maintain personal integrity, not slip into the pitfalls of patriarchy, paternalism and the dull seduction of routine, doing what's easy, following what everyone else does? Well first of all I will NEVER drive a minivan. And... I will write this blog as a testament to me (see narcissism!).

A brave new world stands to be discovered and I embrace all elements of it. Grace and gratitude are my motto, humour is my sail, love is my steadfast companion and friends & family are my witnesses. I hope you join me on this journey, if not for my writing skills then for my company. For like back in the caveman days after the fires got lit, the mammoths were slaughtered, the meat got cured, sitting on soft rabbit fur sheets and drinking mulled berry wine, they would talk, tell stories, play with their children and love one another. I pay homage the ancient human tradition of sharing and squabbling for without it none of us would be here. And the little one inside me is just the latest drop of water in the bucket of life.

So I will clean up last nights mess, make Marc a cup of tea and be myself, future wife, mother, companion, friend, lover, daughter, in law and now... blogger.

namasté
Liz
xo