Body Building, part two: 'Boldness by definition flouts the math that precedes it'
Welcome to Body Building, a series on strength, selfhood, pregnancy, and the uncertain future.
This story will be spread out in occasional installments over the next couple of months as part of our usual content mix while She’s A Beast is on a self-created, pre-programmed but nonetheless handcrafted “maternity leave.” The next pair of installments will arrive in mid-January; the first installment is here.
tw: miscarriage, fertility
It felt like if I wanted a concrete answer to whether I'd be a fit parent, I’d almost have to reinvent “the case for having a child” from first principles. What lent me, specifically, to being a parent? Was it that I loved to play with my dog? I still like to color? I have, in my own life and of my own free will, played on repeat and sung along to “Let It Go” from Frozen? That I freaking love a children’s picture book, and simple small-brained things like noticing good flowers and dogs? That I would be really, really good at and delight in throwing even a sizable child up in the air and catching them, due to my strength? I felt sure it could and would be fun and amazing, in all these ways and more I couldn’t anticipate. All of that would help, but wasn’t “it.”
As sure as I wanted to be, I also didn’t want to be on the “gentle parent” perfectionism treadmill of trying to raise only a perfect, perfectly adjusted human. That way also lay madness. I wanted to ensure a good choice, but also not put pressure on myself about it, to feel sure I’d be a good parent, but in part by not trying so hard. I realized I was making this quite complicated. I also wanted it to not be so complicated.
