The initial idea of writing came from an angry emotion that looked like a very unbalanced pregnant woman hiding behind a black coat. While I was pregnant, I was angry. The smell of the coffees that others were drinking (and I was not) made me angry. I could not talk to anyone about the guilt I felt for feeling like an alien, an outsider to my body. I thought I was alone and that writing about it would help me connect to the few other “moms” that were also angry, that were outside the norm (not normal), that were also hiding behind an unrecognized darkness.
But on one Google search, I realized I was not alone and that my feelings were not only popular. They were urban cool. The perception of cuteness that the world has of babies and pregnant women was annoying people that talked. All the girls that tagged themselves –different and cool- and that were not at the end of the spectrum (girly, girly girl), were out and talking. It was a collective annoyance.
There were so many angry women out there I realized “complaining” could be even more annoying. I didn’t want to connect to them. So now I was angry and hopeless.
I could hardly believe it was going to get better at any point. I would become an egg, and then have a baby, lose my career, my life, my shoes, my clothes, my name. The countless Blogs of “brave honest feminists’ writing things like “Why I will not have kids” and “Why most moms are lying when they say there are happy and that it is good” were getting many likes and hits and all sorts of thumbs up.
It was the end. I would be called mommy, be obliged into all the restaurants with kids, never dream of walking problem free. I was pregnant and my squeezed organs and a changing body were not even close to being a cute fluffy bouncy something (wanting to be touched or hugged). My lungs were struggling to get oxygen into my blood and I quickly turned into a heavy penguin, my feet too little to walk, my morphology telling me to stop walking and start sliding down the hill. I didn’t. I would sit exhausted with my alien eggplant (I read the baby was the size of an eggplant when I had this thought) and my litters of water/placenta. Sit. I could run, but never again would I be lightweight or somehow functional. And I would hate it. I would hate how they would put baby products on strategic places, magazines of ladies with perfect hair staring lovingly at their perfect looking babies on this extremely illuminated rooms where everything looked clean and white, all love and crafting and knitting and homemade whatever. I could smell the excessive sweetness and turn my head around, (ahh!), imagine my eyes under the ocean (my favorite place), try to forget, and stick to my motto: wait.
But then, one day, I felt (him).
And I felt my blood circulating, nurturing him, being shared, my nutrients being his, my life part of everything, the moon, the stars, the skies. I ate carrots, salmons, strawberries. I had juice with him, imagining him tasting it (and we said cheers! Santé! Salud!). I loved more.
I loved him more, and the moon, and the stars, and the skies.
Many times I thought of him with a smile, and played some guitar for him, asked for his opinion. I shaped him into the smartest part of me, the wise voice in my head that would know what to do. And I would answer: I know, you are right.
I loved him and started betraying my feminist voice, Simone de Beauvoir, a voice that is manly, wears black pants and a hat, and smells like Coco channel. If everyone has babies, who is actually going to DO something? I would put my head under water again, and try to forget. And wait, and wait.
On January 6 of 2015 a legendary magician floated down on a parachute into my chest, my broken body bleeding all the sun, and the stars, and the skies, like everything was starting all over again, life itself starting, right there. I witnessed the light of his new eyes, the eyes of the universe, and something changed. The world opened for his presence, opened me, and all it took was a touch of his fingers. I am far from that small egg-woman hiding behind her black coat. I am living. And I feel there is something greater, and that little bit of greatness that I am (and that my son is) grounded me, connected me forever to this time, a rock of love that will never break. I want to make him smile that smile that feels like a gift, that can make a tough guard smile, a bus stop, a random guy put his tongue out.
This is it. This is my kind of Hygge, my absolute present. He is my team player and every day he teaches me love. He is an expert spotting the beauty, the one that sparks the conversation, the warmth. (Oh! I’m his no.1 fan).
And I can’t understand why didn’t anybody tell me it was going to be so good. Not the “sleep all you can” advice, “it is not easy”. Why didn’t anybody tell me it was going to be this good, the type of martini goodness, a dizzying punch that will fix me, clarity, so so much light. There are many types of mothers out there, like there are types of women. Not perfect is good. The news is, your baby will survive you, and the strength you think you need will not come, because, you don’t need it. You don’t need to be strong. The honest, humble, vulnerable heart that you are will be your strength.
And you will go from forgetting your phone to remembering every single thing you need to get the team through the day (and still forgetting your phone). Nothing will happen if the food you cook looks bad. He will eat it. And all that will matter is that you can sing and jump, and step into the flow of your uniqueness, his uniqueness, and your unique relationship. Perfect happy people that always look clean are not true. (That is all photoshop). You are the mother YOU are.
I’m still Claudia, the chocolate addict, and I’m back together with my old friend dark coffee but we have decided on less sugar. I will continue to design products, just maybe a lot more responsibly, thoughtfully. I will continue to draw, and maybe also draw some abstract nonsense with my fingers with him. Maybe. I will compose songs, but maybe also happier stuff. I will swim in the ocean, show him the ocean, the water touching his awesomeness. And I will still have time for myself, take long walks with my camera, feel my shoes touch the ground, like in a Nike commercial, bouncing to small particles of a slow-motion image filmed with a macro lens. Because touching the ground is touching the sun, and the stars, and the skies. And I’m grateful for this thick fat profound peace.
Yes, you can be perfectly happy with your potentials reaching top-top on your professional version, on your educator version, on your “that thing you do best” version (Please do!), but I have to say, I am shocked surprised with the martini love that punched me and fixed me. It takes you up, and down, and up, and sometimes nowhere, and you feel blocked trying to figure out yourself while you are tired/scared/sick/worried panicked/ and infinitely happy. Life becomes something you flavor with all your heart, with your eyes closed. I now think pink is actually a great color (I have being holding back all this time!) and Starbucks is just a very well marketed coffee that sells. That IS all. Hating those things is not who I am. Because you are what you love. You could think what you hate is what you are not. But it is nothing. Nothing+Nothing=stop wasting your time.
And I will get back to work Simone, I will. But will I get back on the game? Hey, what game? The game is easy (boring). It is not about going from A to B. There is a pleasure on that path. I would hear about it all the time (and imagine Maya Angelou), but now I get it. I want to live. Life is so much fuller when you lift your head, take your earphones off, and see, listen, feel the wind in your skin. I just want to collect the happiness of things, beauty, be a Hygge Scout, write about it, (and hope the feeling multiplies).
Introducing legend, game changer, THE hygge scout of all times, *Aurelio*.
- Maya Angelou said: The best part of life is not just surviving, but thriving with passion, and compassion, and humour, and style, and generosity, and kindness.
- My son is called Aurelio. Please don’t call him baby. Sometimes we call him Aure or Ari. Would you go around calling your favourite people (hygge team mates) *adults, hey you?*
- Im not getting payed by Starbucks.
Learn more about Simone de Beauvoir here: https://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Simone_de_Beauvoir