Did you want this to happen?

On two years of intentional discombobulation

When I was pregnant —irrevocably, visibly, "‘meet-a-subway-stranger’s-eyes-before a-seat-was-offered’ pregnant—there was a thing that used to happen with surprising regularity.

Usually, it would occur in Manhattan on my way to work, or coming back from the office. Sometimes it happened during my lunch hour. I would be walking on the street and a young woman would be doing the same. Perhaps on the phone. And you know how you are often looking but not seeing? Well, I got to witness the subtle shift from one state to the other—when a person finally sees what they’re looking at. And almost without fail, there would be a widening of the woman’s eyes when she noticed the bump, and then a startled look up into my eyes before her gaze skittered away, as if she had accidentally gazed directly at the sun during an eclipse. It happened so often. I reached the point where it made me laugh aloud when it occurred.

I interpreted their looks a number of ways. But here are descriptions of the top two: 1) you know that hot, pulsing alarm at observing, out in the wild, wide world, a state you resolutely do not want for yourself? I remember when I was a kid and I’d see another kid getting a sharp word from a parent in public, and I would feel their humiliation so keenly that it was almost my own. And yes, I also remember being 26 and feeling a version of this alarm when I saw a pregnant woman — that laser-sharp thought of holy mackerel, please, no.

Now I was the recipient of those looks. And they ignited a strong urge in me to tell them that they were… kinda right! I wanted to pull them aside and say that here, inside my own pregnant body, I sometimes still felt the same disconcerting panic — in the small hours, when insomnia gripped me, or that brief but terrible period when I FINALLY experienced heartburn for the first time in my life, or even just sometimes when I caught my own reflection while passing in front of a midtown steel and glass building. Who is that? Oh god it’s me. Holy mackerel, please, no.

And then the other one, the look that was a commingling of horror, pity, and fear. The look that silently asked, who did this to you? Or did you want this to happen? And I understood that look too. I have the sometimes-lucky condition of looking younger than my actual years and pregnancy really played that up for some reason, especially when my hair was braided. Sometimes I thought, “do they think this was unplanned? Ha!” Because in many ways, this kid was the most planned endeavour of my life. I would try to reassure them with just my eyes, that their worry was unfounded. That this was an intentional discombobulation that I had personally sought. Tried to transmit the bone-deep zen this life event had induced in me in the looks I gave back. I don’t think it always landed.

Anyway. I have been thinking about those looks because now that I have a child out in the world, I’m always getting looks. And these feel so different. Babies (or toddlers, I guess I should say now!) open you up — I’ve never in any period of life struck up more conversations with strangers then when out and about with this small person. People throw out compliments. They sometimes talk to him before they talk to me. I get lollipops, cookies, fruit, all sorts of gifts pressed on me by strangers, all charmed by my (admittedly) very cute kid. I have more ease with it now but at first it kind of blew me away. Babies are the big show. They were not made to be small. Babies are not just a window left ajar, but a whole wide open door with a ‘Welcome’ sign. Stop awhile, babies urge. Let’s have a chat.

The looks I get now are… soft. I never realized how many eyes are on a baby in public. People watch our interactions so closely? Some of it feels wary, especially on planes — what is this kid about to do? — but generally, people seem curious about babies. They want to know what makes them tick over there in Babyland. And every baby is a born ambassador. Eager to advance his people’s cause wherever he might go. So people wave and smile at my kid. He waves back, most of the time. They laugh when he laughs, or does something funny. They are watching a short film version of our relationship; duration: four to seven stops on the C train. I am perceived, every single time we’re together. It’s equally wonderful and stressful. Love is sacrifice. I do my part.

I am also doing some looking, myself. I stare at my child a lot, sometimes until he squirms away, itchy under my heavy gaze. I’m trying valiantly—and mostly failing— to store details in my forever-memory banks. Already, when I look at photos of him from a year ago, or even a few months ago, I can see how much he has changed, and how much I have already forgotten. Things I swore would be indelible forever are increasingly hazy. He’s growing now and my brain is engaged with what is in front of me, not the fundamentally useless recent past. In the quiet dawn of his second birthday, I woke up and spent long minutes scrolling in my favourites folder until I found photos of him freshly unwombed (dewombed?), face and body covered in vernix, scrunched up and furious at the fluorescent lights, and marveled at how different he looks and yet… look… right there… his face is exactly the same.

Two years is a long time, and yet not very long at all. I am not who I used to be. But I am also more myself than I ever was. The ground feels firmer under my feet now our probationary period is over. I like this stage. He’s talking, and he has strong opinions on the things that matter when you’re 24 months old. But he’s still emerging. The questions in my look when I stare at my kid now are not so different to the ones I received when he was in utero. Who did this to you? Did you want this to happen?

And caught up in the ecstasy of his own existence, his wordless answers seem plain as day. He is delighted that this is happening. He is exactly where he is supposed to be.