Beginning

By Emma Martin 

Photography by Picsea, via Unsplash

There was a baby on my chest, and I felt nothing for her. There was a naked baby on my naked chest, that less than five minutes prior had been inside my body, and I felt nothing for her either. I did feel — I felt drunk on morphine but I also felt on top of the world. I felt incredibly proud of myself; I felt like a goddess for pushing her out against the odds — I just didn’t feel anything for her.

I didn’t feel the rush of love I’d read about. There wasn’t a new sense of fulfillment or peace or anything at all, really. Suddenly there was a baby, and I hadn’t a clue what I was going to do with her. It was like looking down at the tiny head of a tiny stranger, at the flaky skin on her scalp and her fine strands of blonde hair and her two tiny arms and her two tiny hands. I couldn’t really understand how this had happened; how we got here, how there was a human being that wasn’t there just moments before; a human being that was mine to nurture, and I hadn’t the first clue how.

This baby on my chest was a girl and that was all I knew of her. She had no name, I hadn’t fed her, I hadn’t looked into her eyes or held her hand or really had a proper look at her at all. I didn’t know who she was or who she would be. I didn’t know she’d grow to have long blonde ringlets, eyes the same blue as mine but wider and brighter, the clearest, palest of complexions. I didn’t know she’d be my polar opposite; that she’d adore being with other people, that she’d always know what she damn well wanted and not be afraid to express it. I didn’t know, at this point, that there’d be days I’d wish I hadn’t had her. I didn’t know there’d be days my heart would break at the prospect. I didn’t know the humility and the pride she’d eventually bring me. I didn’t know what her laugh would sound like, what her smile would look like, what her arms around my neck would feel like.

This baby on my chest was mine, and I didn’t know her. I didn’t know her — not yet.