When I found out I was pregnant, my instinct was to fanatically forage for knowledge - for terms, for the language of birthing. And damn, I found everything. Encyclopedias of pregnancy, techniques of childbirth and rearing that reminded me of reading political pamphlets - each school of thought bashing the other as the old way or the risky unproven method while singlehandedly claiming victory. "Birth with us or else."
Jesus, what if I chose the wrong team? What if I ruined my kid's life by eating that Butterfinger with every horrible coloring and preservative known to man? What if I can't breastfeed and my kid disowns me and grows a third arm? I was scared shitless.
What to expect if you're expecting? A staggering spew of information and absolutes disguised in passive aggressive manifestos.
This ain't that. Two gems I have to share with you are as such: shut your brain off and ask your heart, what do I know of love?
This is a story of one woman's determination to understand what the hell love is so that she could fearlessly and passionately be the woman and mother she dared herself to become.
First, we begin where I began in the depths of my 28th year of loving. Standing before you, nude in red cowboy boots, posing with a Marb light lit to lip, and languid on itchy carpet, I snapped a portrait that captured my knowing. I came downstairs to email the flick to my Midwest lover while my boyfriend scrambled eggs.
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