Identity shifts...

Today I had a real heart-breaking pang for New York. I wanted it to be a Sunday morning. I would be walking back from my corner store with the Sunday Times bunched precariously under an arm, with a bland, brown coffee at its tip, whilst the other hand grabbed a bag containing a hot, melting egg and cheese roll. I wanted to be in my old apartment on 7th street, sprawled out on the floor, reading the magazine section of the Times while taking a bite of the roll. Later in the day I would walk to an afternoon class of yoga and meander back home after stopping at organic stores to pick up supplies for the week ahead. I would put on some music and with one ear on the phone, start cutting up vegetables...

Nostalgia is easy to get caught up in. It is a misleading foe, leading one down a myopic path of illusion. An indulgence perhaps. However, my little bubble of pain this morning, at the thought of my prior life (so radically different than the one I lead now), was comforting as it was a reminder of a part of myself that, although lonely (at times), was "autonomous".

Something profound and unexpected happens during pregnancy. Reality (that word, perched at the end of every sentence like a pendulous period) sets in. No longer would I ever be "autonomous". Of course that changed once I entered into a relationship with my boyfriend, however there is room in a relationship for autonomy. Pregnancy, a singular state of being is the antithesis of autonomy. I have another being inside me. I am two people. I am at the whim of another, helplessly. I don't resent this, however I feel strange about it.

This morning I felt a flash of pain in my abdomen. It happens from time to time. I am never sure if it is my muscles adjusting or the baby somehow moving in a way that creates an unsavory ripple. Either way, it is a reminder of its presence (or should I say, his presence). Now, as my profile begins to take shape and my clothes start to shrink I am now, more than ever, conscious of a presence. Yet I can't help but feel that he is merely using me as a crash pad while he waits to get out. I know he is never going to say, wow, Mother of mine, I am sorry for making you get fat and anxious and in pain sometimes. Sorry about that. And why should he? He didn't nominate his conception. However, I still feel that this tangled relationship of mother and child begins its potentially precarious descent here in the womb.

Not wishing to appear to bleak (sometimes ugly can be beautiful), I do feel at times a connection with this little entity inside me. For the most part though I am a little confused. Where do I begin and he stops? Or, where does he stop and I begin? How do I become a mother and retain my identity? Or is it that my identity shifts in a way that I will embrace? That I can be both mother and that person sitting, metaphorically, on my coffee table with the paper sprawled enjoying a moment (except this time with my boyfriend joining me).

This piece is meandering a little. It is because I am meandering today. It is raining outside and my belly feels a little vulnerable and I am wondering where I fit in to all this? I have chosen to have this child. I then must take responsibility for taking care of it. Make sure it is happy and nourished. Make sure that I am a mother and a woman that he can look up to.

Maybe that's a big part of it. Be the person that shines in his eyes. Show him how to be a good and worthy human being.

It seems the pregnancy hormones are getting to me this morning... I'm going back to bed.