Maternity-and-What-Not

I've come to the realization, or perhaps moreso the acceptance, that I am not a naturally maternal person. I'm a far cry from the soft spoken, kissy-faced woman who always seems to know just how to hold a wriggling infant or soothe a crying child. If I'm being completely honest, babies (aside from adorable ones who smile at me from diaper advertisements or email attachments from friends) don't interest me all that much, certainly not enough for me to feel the urge to hold one that isn't my own.

At my husbands basketball game recently I nervously watched as a teammate of his made her way to the bleachers with her one year old, looking for someone to hold and play with her during the game. I quickly set my eyes downward and started rifiling through my purse and praying, please, don't give her to me.

It's not that I dislike children, but aside from my son and my nephew, I tend to feel either indifferent or awkward around little ones. I thought this earlier in the week as we sat in the waiting room of my OB with an antsy little Bossman. A slight woman with slender fingers resting on her very pregnant stomach smiled and cooed at my son from across the room. A gentle, maternal woman.

I would've kept my nose in a magazine, only looking up if the toddler had accidentally brushed against my leg.

Later, lying on the doctor's table I had another non-maternal thought as he rubbed a doppler over my gel slathered skin. We heard, again, the rapid flickering beat of the life growing inside me. And my reaction after the inital relief was, Creepy. There are two lives on this table.

I was happy and smiled just the same, but the reaction stuck with me through the night. I think it's justified. There are feet the size of my fingernails walking around inside my body. It is creepy.