Resembling
I wondered what he would look like when he was born. I went through so many images in my head. I pictured every baby on the street to be mine. Lots of traits skip a generation – perhaps he’ll have Steve’s grandfather’s ears, perhaps he’ll look like my father who looks nothing like me, who knows.
I pictured him fair, and when he was born his hair was wet and dark. And so much more complicated.
And after a few minutes I could picture no other baby: of course my baby looks like this. This is my baby.
But in those first few moments I felt something that was probably exhaustion. A gun shooting, time positively stopping. All these possibilities, and then the target hit: this is my son. This is the one. All the possibilities narrowed down to this. All the guessing, and now he is here. These are his hands and no others. This is his hair, these are his feet. I thought I would be able to identify those feet but I couldn’t. I didn’t know whose feet they were, they didn’t look like mine or Steve’s. I was afraid he would get some awkward visual characteristics that popped out once in a while in Steve’s or my genes, but he came out free of those. All my fears dispelled. A relief and an exhaustion.
I thought to myself that those were Steve’s hands in miniature form attached to the new baby in my arms, and something about that, though I love Steve’s hands for sure, made me exhausted. So the baby doesn’t have my hands. But he’s mine, right? I’ve been carrying him all this time and now he comes out and I didn’t know what he would look like, and now all the possibilities are narrowed down into one, and these are his only hands.
The midwife shot me with pitocin and started stitching and it hurt. I was so tired. There had been labor pain for over twelve hours and now I was at last lying down without pain, at last he was here, and the needle was in and out piercing more pain. I was so tired and woozy, and they took the baby away. I missed him when he was gone, whoever he was. I wanted to stare at him, I only saw that his mouth was open screaming, and I saw his hands. Is this normal? I asked the midwife about the boy’s loud lungs, and she assured me that it was.
I thought he wouldn’t cry in his mother’s arms. Steve remembers that he settled, but I remember that he cried and that I had no idea what to do. I remember feeling that way several times that night, that he was crying and mad, actually pretty mad, and I couldn’t figure him out as well as others probably could. I couldn’t tell if he knew I was his mama.
It was all so exhausting, and I was sitting on a stained bed and a bag of ice, and the skin on my stomach was flabby, and the boy would not nurse. I couldn’t tell if he was mine or if he knew that I was his, but also I could tell that he was beautiful. I was relieved.
Those were Steve’s hands. Of all the possibilities, I didn’t picture this. People filed in the room and gave their opinions, most saying that he looked just like Steve. I agreed he had Steve’s eyes, but I thought maybe that was my mouth and my chin. Nope, he’s all Steve. I felt saddened. I wanted him to be mine, I wanted to feel that he was mine, but it seemed, that he was not. I felt tired.
Over time, his face has come unswollen and it looks now like he actually has my eyes and Steve’s mouth, and I think that’s still my chin. Biologically, I’ve read, babies come out looking more like their fathers so that the fathers will stick around. And now he is most certainly mine. Ours.
I can picture no other baby being mine except him. I want to have another baby, but I don’t want to have another baby because the new baby couldn’t be as beautiful as this one is. Of course my baby looks like this. This is my baby and no other. There is no other baby I would rather have.
