Nursery school was overwhelming. I frequently assumed I had responsibilities that were beyond the scope of what wasactually expected of me. I remember my father driving me to the pre-nursery school interview. I was three years old, sitting in the back of his car, lamenting silently because I expected they would test me on my letters and I frequently confused V with Z. For that entire long 8-minute drive I tried to remember which was V and which was Z. The solution kept shifting. V kept becoming Z and my silent despair was growing. The next thing I remember was sitting in the tiny plastic chair at a miniature table, watching the too-big teacher sit in the child-sized chair, and then watching her pull the foam letters out of a plastic zip-loc type bag. She said she was going to ask me which letters were which and it was okay if I didn’t know the answer. I didn’t believe her. It certainly was not “okay” if this unfamiliar lady asked me to do something as simple as identify a foam letter and I was unable. Every single letter she presented was obvious but I could think of nothing else, feel nothing else, besides this sense of impending doom, the horrible anticipation of the moment when she either presented a V or a Z. Finally she pulled a V out of her bag. I looked down and at me fingernails and whispered “V” very quietly. I hoped that if I was wrong, she wouldn’t hear me. I still don’t know whether I was right or wrong. It may have actually been a Z.

i grew up living in my own silent space. i occupied my head space and rarely spoke to others about the things i thought or felt. others fascinated me because it often seemed that they were able to effortlessly and seamlessly occupy both their head space and an exterior social space. my mother tells me that of her seven babies, i was the quietest. i never cried– i simply observed. maybe i was learning.

touch played an important role. it was a way to occupy the same space as others. in nursery school i remember sitting, quietly watching the other children playing. my teacher came up behind me and said “uh oh, i think Jackie’s batteries died” and she scooped me up, exclaimed she was going to change my batteries, and began tickling me ferociously. instantly, i stopped being an observer and became a participant. i could hear my laughter and i felt happy.

today, at the gym, i walked on a treadmill for 30 minutes. my “workouts” have become increasingly mild. my heart rate stays around 110 and every time i start to exert myself, my ligaments hurt or the baby digs into my insides. today, every time i tried to walk a little faster, she would kick me in the ribs while concurrently punching me in my pelvic floor area. she’s strong. when Peti was a fetus, he never hurt me. i was always confused when other women complained of their fetuses moving in ways that caused pain. but now i’m worried.

i had this dream that she was born with tiny sharp rotting teeth and her movement was jittery and frenetic. she didn’t walk- she scampered. her eyes were bloodshot and darted from one spot to another, never focusing. i couldn’t connect with her. other women looked at her and asked if i was sure she was my baby and why, if she was really a newborn, could she run? i insisted she was perfect and they finally agreed but with obvious reservation.

i’m sure dreams are a way of exaggerating concerns so they can be expressed to oneself and understood in their overstated form. maybe part of me is concerned because she is a girl. i suppose because she is a girl, i expect myself to connect with her more deeply, to identify with her, and serve as a model for what she is to become. i need to reconcile the realization that she is still her own beautiful, vibrant strong self with the fact that as her mother, as a female adult, i will be needed by her in ways that my boy child never needed me. i will shape aspects of her identity similarly to how my own mother shaped aspects of my own sense of self.

touch. sometimes nothing makes sense until we reach out and touch one another. then the connection happens, attachments form, shared spaces are occupied, and suddenly whats best for me is best for you. in the context of a mother-child relationship, i suppose thats why i find breastfeeding so important. obviously, in other contexts, i’ve managed to find physical contact in other ways. cuddling. i used to like boxing. adolescence. i loved hitting people hard. i still do but it happens less often and these days, no one hits back.