Issue 09 — Growing a Human

Thoughts on cooking a baby.

Surprise! We made a cool thing that will arrive earthside with the summer solstice.

I have no plans to become a mommy blogger. Each time I attempt to type placenta my brain and fingers correct it to polenta. I’m new here.

While a healthy portion of my twenties were spent ignoring deep desires and bucking against the standard hetero milestones of marriage, my heart has always been set on motherhood—in any form I’d be lucky enough to receive. Max expressed excitement a while back, but tenderly placed this chapter’s timeline in my hands where it remained a question mark. As last summer came to a close and the topic was omnipresent, together we decided to let the universe map out our timing. And with no shortage of gratitude, here we now stand, both feeling that this new chapter is exactly what was always written in our stars.

In the Midwest where we were both raised, I feel like a pregnant senior citizen. In NYC where we’ve lived for the past 10+ years, I feel like a teen mom. Perspective really is everything. I’m embarrassed to admit that at the onset, getting pregnant felt like being thrust into a bizarre branding exercise. Like my choices were telling a larger narrative I would soon lose all control of. The irrational fear of saying farewell to my own identity and the important parts of my baby-free community hit me like a tidal wave. As I sat in a sauna (pregnant and unaware) with friends that feel like sisters, one said she feared pregnancy would turn her into a “social pariah” which made us all laugh at the time, but weaseled it’s way into the unsteady, hormonal repeat reel in my head the first few weeks. A lot of those fears have since been washed away by a deeper sense of trust that we will find the right balance amidst it all. That, and slowly sharing the news with different circles, where so many lovely people have made me feel seen and held. Not all parents ride hard for each other, but the ones that do are ready to be in the trenches covered in mud with you. It’s beautiful.

Talking about parenthood can get sticky quickly. It’s a topic that’s seldom discussed until you’re faced with it head on and become inundated with information. Everyone whose done it has opinions on what’s considered normal, the right timelines, the best way to approach everything. And it turns out, I really don’t like that. What I do love is the raw vulnerability of each person and partnership’s unique journey to arriving where they are now, and the less preachy deliveries of what worked along the way.

My first chapter of pregnancy was focused on physical survival, and some small moves that made me feel like I was still in control while I worked to wrap my head around our new reality:

— Label checking most things in our orbit. I’m on the Perelel vitamin train, and love this site they created to check ingredient lists for toxins, filtering by ingestible vs. topical. There’s also the Little Bean app, and INCI Decoder website. It’s like a game, checking everything from toothpaste to face cream to dish detergent. Enlightening whether you’re pregnant or not.

— Putting clothing on this new body is either really fun or infuriating. Most days my belly feels like the most beautiful part of me, something I want to show everyone I meet. Other days it’s like trying to stuff sausage meat into casing that’s too small. As I am actively resisting maternity clothing outside of special hand-me-downs from generous friends, the only 3 things I’ve bought so far are 1) these Asics because they’re like walking on clouds, 2) new Negative wireless bras in a size up because I have entirely new boobs, and 3) this fancy pregnancy pillow that I want to scream at the top of my lungs has tethered me to life.

— The amount of water I gulp daily could drown a borough. The 40oz Hydroflask was a point of shame early on. To have something even closely resembling a Stanley-style bottle felt weeeeeeeird. But over time I’ve realized that my love for this fucking thing outweighs any other feelings it brings up. I’ve always been team water bottle with a straw for more drinking throughout the day and easier access at night, but now I would tattoo this bottle’s silhouette onto my forearm. Every few days I’ll throw in an LMNT packet for extra electrolytes. Beverages aside, I have a lot to say about the two breakfasts I’ve been eating each morning, sweet then savory, and the cravings that have changed how I look at most foods. But that’s for another time.

On the heels of extensive introspection, I’ve come to see two things very clearly: first, the anger I feel toward so many men right now, specifically those that hold and abuse positions of power, which I unknowingly and unfairly projected onto my unborn baby. A “men are the enemy” and “the future is female” mindset. And second, the juxtaposition of that feeling married with deep gratitude for being given the opportunity to bring a generous and kind human into this world. One that respects everyone and their bodies. One that is taught small ways to make the world a better place. I started a mom’s group in my Brooklyn neighborhood out of sheer necessity to talk about how this experience feels with others going through the same thing at the same time. It’s been soul lifting. One mom recommended the book Boy Mom by Ruth Whippman which was like reading exactly what I have been needing to hear.

I’ve always loved my name. I get a little bump of pleasure when it stumps someone, and I’m asked how to pronounce it. It’s the conversation opener, and the uniqueness of only having met two other Shanna’s that spell and pronounce it the same. It adds to the special factor. Max’s name fits him perfectly, but we joke that it’s on everything—including our vacuum and washing machine.

The pressure of wanting this little bean to feel the same way about their name as I do about mine has been surprisingly debilitating. Akin to the feeling of a to-do list so daunting you can’t even look at it, and instead find yourself organizing a random drawer, starting a new book, or escaping into any other unrelated task because the thought of trying to start somewhere is too much to hold.

The part of this naming exercise that’s struck me the hardest is us, the parents, trying to anticipate this little being’s lot in life. Trying to gauge the energy they will bring, the way they will see and move through the world, with only their tiny movements to go off of. I wish we could ask them what their thoughts are. I wish we could glimpse into their first few years and choose a name that speaks to the parts of life that light them up. But instead, we’re here in limbo, hoping to land on a name that we both like but most importantly, makes sense for who they will become. Is naming a self fulfilling prophecy? Is it us projecting what we hope for them before we even know them? Is it maybe not that deep?

You began as a spark of possibility. Loving each other that much would mean if we made something even half of the other, it would alter our world forever.
You began as an idea. That we haven’t traveled this far or worked this hard or learned this much to not share every part of it with you.
You began as a seedling. While we walked down the path we so diligently paved together, planting wild flowers and oak trees in our wake, following the pull to plant something entirely new and uniquely ours.
You will sprout with the early summer sun, as the highlight of our story. After finding each other in a sea of millions, a decade later—we meet you.