reservation for two
First, come the stories. Then, the inevitable counsel. Some good, some bad, others encouraging, and a select few, sobering. It’s how we connect as people — the sharing of common experiences. It’s a beautiful and, sometimes, tragic impulse. We are wired to divulge our views on the world, solicited or not. One thing in this exchange is unchanging: when we share our most vulnerable moments we not only invite people into our joy, we inevitably invite them into our sorrows.
Three months into my pregnancy I kept my lips sealed. Savoring the intimacy, the smallness of its club. I relished in the silence of a place without spectators while cradling the fears of countless horror stories shared. I entertained the idea of silence until her safe arrival but my husband was more than anxious to share the news with loved ones. Of the few that knew, the secrecy was puzzling. Why withhold a beautiful gift? Why will it to such confinement? Pressure from family mounted as the weeks progressed. Many just couldn’t wrap their minds around the need to delay the announcement. But in a time where physical and virtual realms have lost their boundaries, where all “events” demand a post, this was a sacred space. I didn’t need the extra tips or cautionary tales of difficult deliveries or stories of lifeless existence with children. I was well fed on that stream of content thanks to the tragic human impulse. I needed a new narrative.
“When we share our most vulnerable moments we not only invite people into our joy, we inevitably invite them into our sorrows.”
A year prior to the nauseous first trimester we assessed our timeline and reevaluated our stance on children. It was not so much a question of if but more so when? After decades of following the “guide” to a woman’s progression and finding myself treading off its blueprint, again, I felt powerless and torn. I was 30 with little playing room, or so the world would make you believe. Many of my friends were in their early 20’s with more than enough time to spare and here I was between a rock and a hard place. I wrestled my thoughts, strong arming God for another way, but eventually relented. As the scurry settled, a new silence came over me. It was then I felt prompted to wait another year. The redirection was beyond me. It certainly wasn’t my genius idea because according to science I was one of too many progressive women pushing the boundaries on a clock. If any time was right it was now, right? But the still voice instructing the wait offered me peace I could not shake so I sat back, confidently. One year, nine months, and nine weeks later I was staring at a sonogram, laughing hysterically at another one of life’s comedic turns. But even with a prophecy fulfilled I was still not in the clear. Many before me had suffered loss. Some at the early weeks and others, at time of birth. What in the world made me exempt?? All this while desperately fighting to grab hold of the present hope. For now, she was here, safe in my womb, and alive. That’s all I needed.
“I didn’t need the extra tips or cautionary tales of difficult deliveries or stories of lifeless existence with children...I needed a new narrative. ”
As a member of two big Hispanic families, we’re used to the loud gatherings, strong opinions, and the openness of our lives. It is common practice to love hard and share. Secrets are of no need here, unless it’s a scandal. But in my experience as a first-gen, traditions come with more of a twist. Our perspectives are way too hippie for some conversations, boundaries far too stringent for the safeguarding of “mental health”, and discretion takes a new face. Withholding such celebratory news was a brazen slap to our way of family. A defiance of love. For my side alone, the decision was considered otherly and entirely too Americanized. But how else was I to separate preference from what was customary, unless by protecting the space from intruders? It wasn’t simply about people knowing. It was about preserving our moment from a lack of regard for what was intimate and personal. It was about protecting our emotional, spiritual, and mental health from the unsolicited advice of entitled mouth breathers.
“Joy, fear, and anticipation will only come around once in a first time wave.”
We will never get our first experiences back. Those are once in a lifetime. Joy, fear, and anticipation will only come around once in a first time wave. I couldn’t let anyone interfere with that as I had allowed countless times before. This was neither American nor Hispanic, liberal nor prude, this was simply human.
