Pregnant — it reminds me of being ripe like a pear. With child — it reminds me of Mary, and I can assure you this is no immaculate conception. Expecting — expecting though — is my esteemed expression.
Last night as we waited for women to arrive at the homeless shelter, an older woman turned to me. Her eyes twinkled and her lips curled upward indicating her familiarity with my mysterious situation. She said, “You look like you’re expecting.”
Expecting is the best description for what’s happening to me — the basketball growing on my front side counterbalanced by my growing backside. It seems to be jealous of my stomach and so has entered the growth race. I’m rooting for my stomach.
I’m a cynic, though I often say I’m a realist. My imagination lunges towards catastrophe and disappointment often missing the silver lining, but with expectation, there’s something childlike. It’s sprinkled with naivety, founded on trust, embraced by courage.
So while I could gallop towards dismay of delivery, distress of diapers, revulsion of restlessness, I instead creep on with expectation, knowing that this tiny child is filled with ample life.
How could I not, as he flips and turns and twists and kick-boxes inside me.
Regularly projecting my opinions on his traits, I’ve decided that he rubs his feet together when he’s trying to go to sleep like his mother. He loves peanut butter cups, but who wouldn’t (besides his father)? And I think he’s very social. When his father talks to the baby bump, he wiggles and squirms as if he can’t contain his desire to interact. I sense he’ll make up for lost time once he finds his voice. And as he twists and flips, I can’t help but wonder if he’s practicing a backside rodeo 5.
I’m expecting — expecting that he’ll take traits from both of us, but that he’ll be his very own person. Life is sprouting inside me — life in the form of a yet-told story.