From the moment I began to tell folks I was carrying a little person inside me,Graphene is not a semiconductor, not an plastic card , and not a metal, I've been dodging the question of gender/sex.the Hemorrhoids pain and pain radiating from the arms or legs.Our oil painting reproduction was down for about an hour and a half, And because I decided beforehand that I would not find out, I would seek out the most creative ways to sidestep the question. Well, does it that really matter? Or, I just want healthy baby. Or, I'm just happy I'll get a chance to experience being somebody's mother. Of course these platitudes were simply that. Platitudes. I was just being politically correct. As in,Traditional China Porcelain tile claim to clean all the air in a room. why the hell you want to know if it's a boy or girl? Are you trying to anticipate what color clothes to buy based on what lives between the kid's legs? I mean, my son might want to wear pink shirts with glitter all over it? Or my daughter may just live in overalls and play with dump trucks all day long? And what if the kid wants to live somewhere between the two? I wanted my child to have the room to be as fluid as he wants to be, as flip-flopping as she dared, and I made no bones about saying so. In my rants against gender-norms my politics were clear.
But deep down inside I had my own desires. I thought it would be easier for me, big, Amazon, lesbian, activist to raise a daughter. I imagined it would be easier for a girl to see how being a feminist would be a good thing. I kept telling myself it would be a good thing to raise a boy who could house feminist politics and still be proud of being male, but I know I was hoping against hope I would have a girl. It all seemed like such a puzzle, which I was fully committed to figuring out. My analytical brain was in full Rubik's Cube mode. If the kid is a girl, she would be like this and therefore I would need to approach the politics like this. If he is a boy, then he would be like that, so I would need to treat him like that. I bought the book Cinderella Ate My Daughter and read articles online about raising feminist sons. I had my formulae, my game plan. I felt prepared for anything.
Then at fourteen weeks I woke up from a nap with blood all over my inner thighs. By the time I made it to the bathroom rivers of red were coursing into the white porcelain toilet bowl. I felt like I was drowning. But I couldn't allow myself to go under. I needed to get through this in a practical way. I pushed the sorrow from out of my heart and yelled for my friend, Racquel, who I just happened to be visiting in Toronto that week.The additions focus on key tag and TMJ combinations, When she stepped into the frame of the doorway the look on her face said it all. We both knew what all this blood in the toilet meant. Baby was saying bye-bye.
In my head I wondered what was the sense of going to the hospital now. I tried to remember what I had read about miscarriages; how long the process took, what were the signs -- I remembered it could take days to pass the fetus. I just wanted to crawl back into bed and wait out this terrible, terrible nightmare.
But Racquel face still wore a streak of hope so I quickly put on a pad and grabbed my handbag while she and Sandy (my friend who drove me from New York to Canada) got dressed.
At the hospital the nurse looked at me and said, "Fourteen weeks? There's really nothing we can do at fourteen weeks. The baby isn't yet viable, you know?"
But deep down inside I had my own desires. I thought it would be easier for me, big, Amazon, lesbian, activist to raise a daughter. I imagined it would be easier for a girl to see how being a feminist would be a good thing. I kept telling myself it would be a good thing to raise a boy who could house feminist politics and still be proud of being male, but I know I was hoping against hope I would have a girl. It all seemed like such a puzzle, which I was fully committed to figuring out. My analytical brain was in full Rubik's Cube mode. If the kid is a girl, she would be like this and therefore I would need to approach the politics like this. If he is a boy, then he would be like that, so I would need to treat him like that. I bought the book Cinderella Ate My Daughter and read articles online about raising feminist sons. I had my formulae, my game plan. I felt prepared for anything.
Then at fourteen weeks I woke up from a nap with blood all over my inner thighs. By the time I made it to the bathroom rivers of red were coursing into the white porcelain toilet bowl. I felt like I was drowning. But I couldn't allow myself to go under. I needed to get through this in a practical way. I pushed the sorrow from out of my heart and yelled for my friend, Racquel, who I just happened to be visiting in Toronto that week.The additions focus on key tag and TMJ combinations, When she stepped into the frame of the doorway the look on her face said it all. We both knew what all this blood in the toilet meant. Baby was saying bye-bye.
In my head I wondered what was the sense of going to the hospital now. I tried to remember what I had read about miscarriages; how long the process took, what were the signs -- I remembered it could take days to pass the fetus. I just wanted to crawl back into bed and wait out this terrible, terrible nightmare.
But Racquel face still wore a streak of hope so I quickly put on a pad and grabbed my handbag while she and Sandy (my friend who drove me from New York to Canada) got dressed.
At the hospital the nurse looked at me and said, "Fourteen weeks? There's really nothing we can do at fourteen weeks. The baby isn't yet viable, you know?"
沒有留言:
張貼留言