by Madeline Anthes

African elephants are pregnant for an average of 22 months before giving

Birth is not as terrifying as I expected. There was pain. There was blood. But then it was over and there was a baby. A fragile, purple, writhing animal, more akin to a hairless cat than a human child.

“Hello, baby,” I said, looking at the gaping mouth and wrinkled hands. “I don’t really know what I’m doing here. Don’t be too hard on me, OK?”

As if in response, the baby opened her eyes and stared past me. She could not see me, but I could see her.

  ***

Orangutans nurse their young longer than any other primate, possibly spending more than seven years breastfeeding their

Babies and birth are two very different things. Birth I could handle. I was ready for birth. I took classes and had a plan. I drove to the hospital to find the fastest routes. I had a go bag.

I was not ready for motherhood.

“Why didn’t anyone warn us?” I whisper to my husband as I bounce the baby. She won’t stop screaming. I am sweating through my nightgown. “Why won’t she eat?”

What I don’t say is: What am I doing wrong?

“I think they tried,” my husband says, the heels of his hands pressing into his eyes. “You can’t really prepare for this.”

This was true. They warned me about the sleep. But no one warned me about bleeding nipples. No one warned me about mastitis or cabbage leaves or oatmeal or lanolin. The secret language of baby slings. The hierarchy of car seats and stroller systems. The loneliness and terror. The dread and noise.

“I guess,” I said.

What I don’t say is: What have we done?

***

When sea lice babies are ready to be born, they chew through their mother’s body, killing

 Her body grows overnight. One day she is clinging to my leg when a stranger walks by, the next she is dangling from a jungle gym, telling me to watch.

She falls, gets up, brushes wood chips from her shorts, keeps running.

I hold in the urge to yell “be careful” because she knows that already.

I’m told be careful instills fear, teaches her that risk-taking is inherently scary. I’m told that this discourages growth and challenge. I’m told I shouldn’t interfere.

And when she falls and there is a sickening crack, and a scream makes us mothers on the bench whip our heads up and seek the source, I know it’s my girl without seeing what happened. When I get to her and she clings to me, her child arms wrapping around me in panic, I know that somehow, this is my fault.

***

 After some spiders give birth, the mothers create a nourishing liquid to feed their young. The mothers then liquify and the offspring consumes their

Bodies consume us. The idea of them. The shape of them.

She sees herself as a work in progress, something to be carved and shaped and worked at like a lump of clay.

I think of my stomach and the lines that sprouted like roots when she was growing inside me. I think of the brown line that appeared down my belly like an equator, my swollen nose, my thick ankles. How I hated that body.

But then I see the crease of her elbow and the curve of her hairline. The knobs of her spine and puckered bellybutton. I pieced her together, building her the way a child builds with Legos, my body following an ancient and secret recipe without my brain even knowing how.

She hates her body and the way it moves, but I see it for what it is. She cannot see me. She cannot see herself.  But I can see her.

***

Once baby strawberry dart frogs turn into tadpoles, they need to be deposited into tiny pools of water high up in the trees. A mother frog transports the tadpoles one at a time, carrying them on her  

 Back at home, the house smells like my girl. Or, it smelled like our life before she left.

Sunscreen and cereal and dust and orange juice. Bread and shoes and hairspray.

Her bedroom still has scattered magazines on her nightstand, an old plate on her desk. She packed like she was leaving for school, not leaving for good. It hurt to pick up her dishes and close her bedroom door. I don’t know when she’ll be back.

At night we watch TV. We are not interrupted. We fall asleep on the couch.

I check my phone and see she hasn’t texted. I turn off my phone.

When we make our way to bed, my husband asks if I’m okay.

“I miss her,” I say.

What I don’t say is: how can we go back to a life without her?

What I don’t say is: haven’t we longed for this freedom?

What I don’t say is:  why didn’t anyone warn us about this pain?

I hold my breath before I fall asleep, exhaling slowly to calm my heart and let go. I sleep the entire night.   

Photo by Birger Strahl on Unsplash