Is it because my kid’s lived inside me for nine months that when they feel pain, I feel it too? I swear, when they are hurt emotionally, or physically, I get that in the middle of my chest and I want to throw up and scream and hold onto my heart so it doesn’t bust right out of me with the intensity of an asteroid (what a mess that would be).
There are so many things they don’t tell you in What to Expect When You’re Expecting, like how you will love in a way that is impossible to describe and bigger than the crowd in Time Square on New Year’s Eve, how your humanity will expand to eighty-two sizes larger than normal, how you will never again stop worrying, no matter how many fucking meditation tapes you listen to. There are no chapters on the fiery attachment that exists between mother and child. That book prepares your uterus, but not your heart.
And so it is, that once you have a child, you are in it. Oh, I am grateful for this epic roller coaster ride, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes I wish I could just leave the pain part at the door.