Pregnancy is a wild ride. Its filled with excitement, worries, body changes, and hormones. During the highs and lows of my own first trimester's emotional rollercoaster, I found myself searching for a way to cope with my sudden internal instability. I found solice in writing short stories during my lows (which my fellow expectant ladies can understand, can be extremely low). Being pregnant is difficult. I've forgiven myself for feeling less than zealous about my condition. Yes, my baby is a blessing. My husband is wonderful and I'm very fortunate to be in the situation that I'm in. Yes, I'm excited to be a mom and I will love my baby fully, but motherhood is not the only role I've filled. I've been an education-centered, career-centered, self-centered, adventurer for 26 years and changing my priorities does not happen overnight -or without fear. That fear lead me to write 'doors', its an exaggeration of the trapped feeling that bubbled up as I cancelled our travel plans, and notified my career that I would have to put it on hold for maternity leave. 'Doors' captured my fear. It put it on paper, rather than allowing it to circle my mind. It gave me peace.
If there are other pregnant women feeling guilty about not always feeling maternal and joyful, you're not alone. Pregnancy is the long, uphill, walk to the paradise which is holding your child for the first time. We all have faith that it will be well worth it, but naturally we notice the blisters along the way.
Doors
I use to run, wild. I had a thousand doors around me, all unlocked, with enticing booming sounds beckoning me to explore where they lead. I opened so many of those doors. Sometimes I became lost. But other times i stumbled across living that can only be described as magic. Each day transforming faces of strangers into loved ones, foreign places becoming my sacred ground. I lived so fully. Perhaps too fully... maybe we are only meant to see so much before the doors begin to rust, binding themselves shut, so that entry is difficult, if not impossible.
I circled the world, & then quite suddenly, without deliberation, I traded in my traveling shoes. I did it for love. A noble, logical reason to hang your hat. But, I am a woman and love carries heavier choices for us.
Just the act of being in love, firmly shuts & locks a few doors to the new suitors and the novelties they provide. That was no bother. He loved me truly. I no longer needed the compliments of strangers to see my value when I looked upon his face.
But, then there was a child. More doors slammed quickly shut.
My love became my husband. A formal, heavy contract now binds us, in case the love itself is not ever lasting.
My body is no longer my own. Every aspect of it now lends to the child. The accomodations and limitations are endless.
It's been decided, to be a proper mother, I should not return to work for a period of time. Tightening our budget, and 'changing our lifestyle'. More doors latch closed.
With out my own money, without my own body, I am expected to live for the family I created, transforming myself into the matriarch of our home.
But, I was once a bird. I flew to the corners of the world upon my own whimsy. I opened the doors to Asia & Europe. I let the sun kiss my skin and the rain dampen my head, without the shade of a stable home. As doors close, they become the walls of my new house. And I sit safely inside.
Even the most powerful animals, great bears and tigers, seem docile and muted behind the bars of a zoo. For their comforts, they trade their spirits. Sadly, many would never be able to survive if they were released.
How long will it take? Before I forget how to fly? *
