Then I Saw Her Face

Like most people, Ruyman and I worry about what kind of parents we’re going to be. His fears stem from two complete train-wrecks in the dad department. Mine are, among other things, a result of my line of work. 

As a teacher, you see a lot of different kinds of parents. You see the ones with ridiculously bright, capable, wonderful children, the ones whose biggest parenting challenge is whether or not to tolerate an A-. You see the parents with kids who are screwed up, but Mom and/or Dad are literally doing everything they can to straighten them out. You see the parents who refuse to accept that their children are less than angelic, the ones who make everything from messy homework to selling smack someone else’s fault. And you see the parents who are completely, utterly clueless, the ones who aren’t really sure how the kid got here in the first place and the hell if they’ve known what to do about them since. 

I don’t claim to be any kind of parenting expert. The only thing I know for sure is that I never wanted to be the kind of parent that resents her kids. Growing up, I had friends with mothers like that and I was always grateful that my mom didn’t just love me, she wanted me. You can tell the difference. So when Ruyman and I found out we were expecting, I was really worried that the one promise I had made to myself - that my child would be wanted - would be null and void before my baby left the womb.

The positive pregnancy test wasn’t exactly a surprise. Ruyman turned 30 in January. I could tell he was tumbling around thoughts like “declining sperm quality,” “I’ll be 50 when the kid’s 20,” and “Crap - I’m getting old.” Let’s face it - at 29, I’m not exactly in the blush of my childbearing years either. So after five years of marriage, we finally decided to pull the goalie and see what happened.

That’s when Ruyman’s employment situation worsened, my health started to deteriorate (because I was pregnant, actually), and things between us and Ruyman’s family got more than usually dicey. Living in a foreign culture is difficult. Living in a foreign culture with your Spanish speaking in-laws who resent you for things you may or may not have said/done is... uh, more difficult. Especially if you’ve done some bridge burning back home and are stuck toughing it out.

So it wasn’t that I was upset about having a child. I was frustrated with the circumstances surrounding us and the idea of bringing a defenseless human being into the mess just seemed like an incredibly cruel thing to do. I mean, think about it. Do you want to raise a child in a home where parasite-infested dog poop and cigar-length cockroaches are the most common objects on the floor? Not bloody likely. 

The accompanying morning sickness just made me more hopeless. Not only did life suck on the outside, but now there was this alien creature on the inside of me playing jump rope with my digestive tract. After two trips to the ER due to bleeding, a big part of me wondered if a benevolent God would allow us a do-over and let us move back the States before having a baby. After my extensive whining via email, my little brother asked, “So is there anything good about being pregnant?” The only thing I could think of was that it temporarily cured my chronic insomnia.

Last Wednesday, I had my first real ultrasound. I’d had two others during the ER visits, but because they were so early, they revealed only a small blob hanging out in my uterus. The mass looked more like a tumor or an accidentally swallowed tube sock than a baby, so when the technician did his thing this last week, I wasn’t expecting much. 

I’ve had pretty good luck in that most of the doctors I’ve had speak at least a little English. The technician spoke more than most. As he poked around with the sonogram, he made comments like, “Here’s a leg. Hands. The spine. The heart. The head.” As I looked at the monitor, I could see he was right. My tube sock of a few weeks ago suddenly became a baby. The tech zoomed in and I could see a face, complete with eyes closed shut. He zoomed out and I watched my baby tossing and wriggling, elbows and legs flailing, trying to find a comfortable spot, just like I do on sleepless nights. I couldn’t feel her move yet, but I could see it right there in black and white. “Dear God,” I thought. “Is that what I’ve been making in there? It really is a miracle.”

I looked back over my shoulder to gauge Ruyman’s reaction. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he gave me a watery smile and said, “That’s our baby.” 

“Do you want to know the baby’s sex?” the tech asked. We nodded. “It’s a girl. Una chica.” 

And that’s when I knew I didn’t have to worry about not wanting her. Somehow in those few minutes, in just a small way, my baby became real and I became a mother.