Quasimoto

I was born an old Jewish grandmother, steeped in paranoia and explanations for everything. When I was a kid, I used to ask my mother "Why?" so much that she started answering "Because!" That always made me cry.

Like many other women who did not bother to do any research before getting knocked up, B.P. (Before Pregnancy) I thought that not showing for the first three months meant that everything was more or less business as usual, other than a few extra cells dividing in there - like a wart or something. But no. From the outside I look like any other unpregnant girl, but inside all this shit is moving, and shifting. Even before you baby kicks, your gas baby tries to knock down the door.

Sometimes these shifts cause dull achey pain that just makes you overall cranky. But more often than not, they cause arbitrary sharp pains. All roads lead to only one possible explanation: I'm losing the baby.

Usually, the pain is followed by an "Oh my God." Then I double over in pain. I realize that I must swiftly stop whatever I am doing and make my way to a horizontal position. But as soon as I start moving, the pain stabs me again. Inevitably I end up doubled over Quasimoto-style, protecting my spawn. To extra-protect the side of the body where the pain is - where the baby surely must also be, even though that side switches back and forth eleven times a day – I favor that leg by dragging it, limp, down the street.

When I eventually hit my bed, I usually breathe a large sigh of relief, pop a prenatal vitamin, and let out a gigantic gas baby, giving new meaning to the term “born again.”