On the outside

I think I started rubbing my belly as soon as I knew I was pregnant. Every day in those first few weeks, I'd look in the mirror, my hands hunting my midsection for any sign of The Baby.

Over the months, the motion became as instinctual as breathing. A baby body part would slide under my rib cage and my fingers would chase it. Another would poke up in my lower abdomen and I'd give it a pat.

I remember toward the end of my pregnancy interviewing someone for a news story when the source stopped mid-sentence and asked if I was ok.

"Oh no," I said, embarrassed. I realized I'd been massaging a lump above my navel that I was certain was The Baby's rump. "I'm fine," I told her,  "It's just the only place I have to put my hands any more."

In those last few weeks before Aida was born, I started to worry I would miss feeling her move inside me once she was on the outside. Her hiccups. Her kicks. Her late-night flip-flop from the left side to the right. Two weekends before I was due, I became so convinced that she'd stopped moving that I made Steve and my mom take me to the hospital. A heart monitor showed she was fine, just running out of room for acrobatics.

Nowadays, one of my favorite ways to pass the time with Aida is to let her take a late afternoon nap on my chest. She seems to have a difficult time napping in her crib for more than an hour. But when she's sleeping on me, she's able to sleep for hours.

So, we curl up at the end of the couch. She slumbers on my left side, her head buried in my chest or neck or under my chin. Sometimes, I balance my laptop on my knees and cue a Netflix movie. Other times, I read, turning pages in between rubbing and patting her back.

On one of these afternoons, I was paging my way through "Great With Child: Letters to a Young Mother," by Beth Ann Fennelly,  a beautiful book (sent to me by a friend and mom of two) of letters from an experienced mother to her pregnant girlfriend, when I got to this part:

It's funny because a pregnant woman spends so much time anticipating the baby leaving the womb, longing for it, impatient for it, but the truth is, when the baby is finally born, it's strange not to carry it inside any more, however much she's longed for precisely that.

As I read it, I realized I'd been circling Aida's back with my hand, my fingers sliding around the arch of her lower back and up over her little bottom, then back up again. Over and over. Just as I did when we shared the same body.

Nine months. Photo by Melissa Lyttle.