When Rich and I went to Rio for our honeymoon, (aside from the long bout of projectile stomach flu I am apparently prone to when traveling to foreign countries), I remember thinking it was the most amazing thing that no one spoke my language, ate the food I was used to eating or even gestured in the same manner as the people back home. It was a bit terrifying and exhilarating all at the same time- as if, because no one really knew or could understand me, I, in turn, didn’t really know myself. I think this whole process of becoming a mother is quite similar to foreign travel- projectile vomit and all.
I’ve been fairly caught up the last few weeks of this pregnancy by the fact that I am in a body that I don’t really know and am still not used to, that no one seems to speak my “language” which changes lanes from, “All I can talk about is baby wipes,” to, “doesn’t anyone think I might want to talk about something other than baby wipes?!?!?!” in zero to five seconds and trying to reconcile the fact that I will be a mother, among all of the other things I classify myself as. This is quite a daunting undertaking. So, in order to wrap my brain around some semblance of order, I’ve been attempting to draw connections to moving and traveling- two things I am very familiar with, though rarely do well.
These are my new digs. My new skin, my new role, my new undertaking. Though it seems that no one may speak my language at times, this is, in fact, not true. We just have yet to learn each others. I’m still roaming around this uncharted territory on uncertain (swollen) feet, but the food’s pretty good here, it’s got a nice view and the people seem friendly. I’ll let you know how I manage.