Sunday, September 25, 2011

letters and words and paragraphs.

I wasn’t expecting that I’d write you. I’m not all those others. with the names picked out already. I’m the eccentric auntie who comes and goes as she pleases. not the hold you after your nightmares one. not that one.

my body has betrayed me. cultivating cravings for children I swore I’d never bear. I don’t know what to do with these desires to have and raise them. my body making choices for me my mind never consented to.

I like heels. I love my purses. I don’t want to carry those diaper bags and strollers and baby car seats and this wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m not supposed to feel this way. feel like you and I are supposed to know each other. like I’m supposed to teach you things and hold you. and tell you your other mother loves you, she’s just being stubborn right now. I’m not supposed to see us all around the dinner table. all the sun shining. all the beautiful meals.

and I can’t understand why this is happening. why I want them now when I knew I wouldn’t. this is too much.

she doesn’t know I want to have her babies and I don’t know how to tell her. all these tears. I can’t. I’m not supposed to be a mother. I’m not supposed to arrange playdates, pick the best schools, baby-proof my house, teach them about gender and twist their hair. this is not the life I’ve seen for myself. I’m not supposed to be a grandmother someday. I can’t feel this way. and I do. and there’s nothing you can do when your body has made up her own mind about who she wants to carry. and what have I been carrying all these years? the belief that I don’t know how to be a good mother? maybe somewhere I gave up on family. real family. family that is always there. that shares meals and teaches you things and forgives.

I want to understand what’s happening to me. but I don’t. I feel like the things I knew are changing. I thought I’d spend my always in New York and now I’m leaving. thought my heart would stay broken forever and it didn’t. thought I’d never have babies but my body wants them. my minds says no and my body says what she says.

what am I supposed to say or do? my body wants to be pregnant. I’m a dyke who doesn’t want babies. tell me what to do about that. tell me how to move through my day with the children inside me singing so strong I can feel the vibrations on my skin. I just want to lay here and cry. I don’t know what’s happening to my own body. I’m confused. before we even talk about the logistics of babymaking (sperm, the role and level of involvement of the father and and and…), I am confused. who am I? I know I’m a poet and a sister and a daughter and a cousin and a niece and an auntie. I never thought I’d be a mother. ever. never.

I meant this as a letter to you. all you. singing in me songs so strong I feel vibrations on my skin. how do you know this song? that I haven’t taught you yet? songs we made up one Sunday. songs you taught me.

I can’t. I cannot do this. I cannot change everything about my life. I can’t. the world will not drastically drop in population if I don’t have babies. and then…I so tired of resisting my body’s desire to have you. I don’t know what will be. or if we will be. but I’m tired of resisting even considering you.

I don’t know what to say to you. this is not the most heartwarming welcome you could have received, I know. I’m sorry. I guess I just want you to know beforehand. where I’m coming from. and incase we never meet I guess we’ll always have these letters and words and paragraphs.

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