When I was pregnant, I would get a weekly email comparing my fetus to the size of a fruit or vegetable. The emails came every Thursday, and I got a little thrill when they popped up in my inbox. I would immediately forward them to close family members, typing the fruit or vegetable of the week in caps in the subject line. I’m sure my husband loved getting messages titled “HEIRLOOM TOMATO!!” and “DURIAN FRUIT?!?” during his workday. (And yes, the latter is an actual thing).
After the produce prediction, the emails would go into detail about the baby’s development that week—where hair was sprouting, what limbs were growing and when fat was filling in. I devoured every fact and illustration, hungry for insight on the amazing activity happening inside me.
I read every sentence in those emails and clicked every link promising more information. I read every baby book I could get my swollen hands on. I Googled like a crazy person. But still, at the end of the day, all the facts and science didn’t satisfy.
Why? Because when you are a pregnant, you are intimately aware that you are part of a great mystery. Every fiber of your being lets you know that you are a vessel in a bigger story. An act of creation is taking place, and, sorry, you have little to nothing to do with it.
Well, sure, you had something to do with it, but, then again, not really. While my baby’s eyelashes were first forming, I was probably sleeping (or even less inspiring, scrolling through my Facebook feed). When the air sacs in his lungs began to develop, I was likely at work sitting in a meeting. I didn’t wake up one day and instruct his heart to start beating or labor to inject breath into his lungs. Not one milestone of his growth occurred because I willed it so. I can plant a seed, but I can’t make it rain.
That’s not to say I didn’t impact the course of events. I ate a (relatively) healthy diet. I don’t smoke. I did (some) yoga and took nightly walks. But, compared to generating organs and engineering intricate body systems, I think it’s safe to say I played a supporting role.
In bed at night—hands folded on my pregnant belly, eyes wide open—I was often overwhelmed by this symphony of life unfolding within. Each note perfectly planned and orchestrated, yet quiet and hidden. I wanted so badly to understand how it all worked, but the answers were decidedly beyond my grasp. When you’re pregnant, you soak up knowledge like a sponge to try and limit the unknown. But the unknown is so vast and so profound, that you might as well accept it and embrace the wonder.
I don’t think I’ll ever get over it. I can’t tell you how many times I’ll turn a corner, see my son and just be emotionally floored by his existence. Where did you come from? What did I do to deserve you? How did such a spectacular work of art spring from such raw materials?
I am a smart girl. I know and appreciate the rational, scientific answers to these questions. But there is more to it. Ask any woman who has been pregnant. You can’t subtract the element of mystery from the equation. A miracle stirs deep inside, and the awe is palpable.
I experienced it again tonight as my son finished his last bottle before bed, both of us snuggled in the rocking chair. His eyelids were heavy with sleep. I leaned down and kissed his cheek, and when I did, I felt the warm breath from his nostrils on my face. That breath, that unmistakable sign of life—that I somehow gave him, yet wholly did not—stunned me. In that second of warmth, I was overcome with awe by the precious gift of him. And in that moment, I knew full well that I did not create him and that he is not mine forever. A surge of love and thankfulness rose up in me so quickly that a tear or two overflowed.
He is an ordinary baby and I am an ordinary mother, yet our lives are bathed in the extraordinary. I am a witness to the wonder, and I will never get over it.
Sarah Weller 