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Baptism By Fire

© Amy Condra-Peters

It has been uttered countless times, and countless pregnant women have nodded, feigning belief: "There is no way to prepare for motherhood." This declaration goes in one ear and out the other; of course you can prepare for motherhood! There are books, classes, videotapes-all promising to teach us the difference between an amniocentesis and an ultrasound, what to do when our baby won't sleep through the night, and how to foster self-esteem in our preschoolers. When you are dealing with an unborn child, this advice for the future seems wise and empowering. However, there is no way to anticipate the strength of a bond that begins with the vigor of childbirth, and only intensifies every second thereafter. What surprised me most following my daughter Zoe's birth, what surprises me even now, is the unforeseeable way in which this bond will express itself.

Toward the end of my first pregnancy, my husband and I dutifully attended Lamaze classes in our quest to hone our parenting skills. On the last night of class, John and I watched a grainy, well-worn videotape of a woman giving birth. She grunts her way though the pain until at last she is rewarded for her efforts by the slippery birth of a perfectly formed infant. I watch, and I cry. I, who cannot stand to cry in front of my family, am unashamed of weeping openly in front of my classmates. After all, this is what is expected of huge, hormonally charged pregnant women. If the miracle of birth is not justification for unabashed sentiment, then nothing is! Such is my belief during this tumultuous period of gestation.

A week later I have become what I previously only witnessed on TV-a grunting, writhing woman giving birth. I push, push, push, then with one last effort my daughter Zoe is propelled into the world. I gaze at this beautiful creature that I have loved since the EPT test turned purple, and my overwhelming emotion is that of hunger. I cried for a stranger's newborn; when mine is born, I am consumed by the desire for a grilled cheese sandwich.

Maternal sentiment does not exert itself on cue. I do not love my daughter most when she sweetly snuggles against me, and tells me that I am the best mommy in all the land. It is when her big blue eyes angrily bore into me, when she stamps her feet and yells that if she could drive then she would jump in the car and speed away and never come back, that I feel the dizzying reality of the connection that we share. I look at her defiant face, and I am taken aback at the intensity of my love for her and of my fierce desire to protect her from a world she hasn't yet learned to navigate. It is at these times that it is hardest to let go.

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