The dim light in the bookstore’s bathroom made it hard to see clearly, but I spotted blood on the toilet paper. I wiped a bit more, trying to convince myself it was just my imagination. Bracing against the porcelain sink, reality hit me. I was terrified of losing my baby. I wanted to be a mom to this child, but honestly, I felt lost. What could I really do?
After a few moments of gathering myself, I stepped out of the shop and onto the street. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath. When I opened them, the ground felt steady beneath me. No pain. I could breathe. I told myself, “I’m going to be a mother.” I needed to hold onto that thought.
That’s when I sent a message to my fiancé, Rob, telling him about the blood. He replied quickly, “I’m coming home.”
When he arrived, he reassured me, gently cradling my face in his hands. “Why don’t you call the doctor?” he suggested. I didn’t know what else to do; my mind was just blank.
It was late, and the doctor wasn’t in the office. I reached the answering service and explained what was happening. I could hear her typing on the other end, and I thought, how hard could it be to get a doctor?
Her voice sounded strained, like she was having a tough day. “The doctor will call you back,” she said finally.
“When?” I exclaimed, my voice higher than I intended. Rob gently put his hand on my back. “How long? You have to tell me. I can’t bear the thought of losing the baby.”
The next part felt like a blur. The doctor called and asked me a series of questions: How much blood? What color was it? Did it fill a pad within an hour?
“I don’t know, I just don’t know,” I murmured, “but I’m sure it’s nothing.” I said that without even thinking. My heart was racing, and the words just tumbled out.
“It’s okay,” the doctor said kindly. “It’s actually common for about 20% of women to have spotting in the first trimester. Just keep track of how much you bleed. Don’t hesitate to call if you need to.”
After I hung up, I broke down in Rob’s arms. I feared our baby would die, and somehow, I felt responsible.
This didn’t just come out of nowhere. A year and a half after my marriage to Evan fell apart, I met Rob. We were both still healing from our breakups. When we first connected, we often referred to our exes as “ghosts,” lingering in our pasts. But another thing overshadowed our relationship: my urgent desire for a baby.
Rob was supportive, though he wasn’t on the same timeline as I was. We made compromises, yet I naively thought everything would fall into place once the baby arrived.
Now, at 42, I’m pregnant and in the grip of anxiety. I’m not just worried; I’m tormented by the idea that losing this baby is some sort of punishment for my past decisions. I had aborted a pregnancy at 17, hoping to chase after dreams without the burden of motherhood, but here I am, faced with the reality of possibly becoming a mom.
I never imagined I’d want children. For much of my life, I believed I didn’t want them at all. Yet, after my marriage, during a therapy session, I shared how troubled I felt about the whole baby issue.
“On a scale of 1 to 100, how badly do you want a baby?” she asked.
After some thought and a slow breath, I replied, “Honestly, it’s about 55%.”
So, I wanted just a bit more than I didn’t. Despite all my self-reflection and discussions, I never felt particularly convinced. I made lists of pros and cons, but in the end, the scales seemed even.
I often questioned myself: Was that enough? Did I really need to feel completely ready to be a mother?
I had known for a long time that becoming a mother was not just about desire, but about my upbringing. Society and family whispers told me that motherhood would completely consume my previous life. I felt torn between the idea of a maternal instinct and the realization that many women in my family had seemed to abandon their children for their own choices.
Did I truly want a child, or was I just unclear about what life would look like without one?
The story of Ydia Davis resonated with me. She realized that her choice about having children stemmed from deeper motivations, and I couldn’t help but reflect on my own journey.
I once told my therapist, “Some people think that if you have a baby, you should genuinely want one.”
“Who are those people?” she asked.
I shrugged, unsure anymore. Parenting felt like a definitive rite of passage I was meant to partake in if ever given the chance. Perhaps I should start smaller—like getting a pet or looking after my friends’ kids before diving into the deep end.
Before leaving that day, I tried to speak aloud: “I want a baby. I want a baby.” It felt significant to name it. Yet, even with layers of empowerment around my desire for children, I felt unsure.
I wanted clarity on what it meant to truly live a fulfilled life. But the stories of others weighed heavily on me. I heard how mothers from my past had sacrificed everything for their own pursuits, and it left me doubting my own capabilities.
I ran from these narratives, unwilling to accept that I might inherit their struggles. I built a life filled with travel and adventure, wearing my independence like a shield.
I blamed my family history for the mistakes they made and the obstacles they faced. Falling into the same traps they did wasn’t an option for me. I was determined to rewrite my narrative.
In my mid-30s, I pondered something different. What if the women in my family hadn’t failed? What if they had been okay mothers? Could I be a good mom myself?
I didn’t want to feel broken anymore. I craved a path that didn’t seem predetermined by my genes. I wished to create the life I envisioned for both myself and my future children free from regret.
Five years after expressing my desire for a baby, I found myself in Rob’s embrace. “Remember what the doctor said?” he asked softly. I shook my head, lost in my thoughts. “You just need to rest,” he reminded me.
But those words didn’t quite settle in. My body felt heavy, and I imagined our baby peacefully floating in the amniotic fluid.
Little did I know the joy our daughter would bring—she thrived beyond my expectations, helping her dad in the community garden and loving storytime with me. It felt surreal, and Rob’s soothing presence gave me strength. Together, we found solace in uncertain moments, holding each other close.
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Mother Code: My Love, Loss, Mythological StoriesPublished by Random House on May 6th.
