If I could shoot my insurance company in the face with an AK47, I would. How can a company boasting healthcare deny you for pre-existing conditions or, better yet, if you’re pregnant, tell you that you have to wait an entire year before you can use your maternity benefits? Long story short? Blue Cross Blue Shield is a bitch, and I don’t care who knows it. That’s right. I said it. A bitch.

But, I am not writing today about the aches and pains of money. I will not be that kind of mother. Instead, I am marveling. Marveling at the daily changes that can occur, even in these early stages. While watching a movie, a line struck me: Women create life, and men destroy it. While this might seem a bit harsh, there’s some truth to it, no? At least that’s what our history says.

The most amazing thing about being pregnant? It forces you to be in the moment. You can’t go through your days aimlessly, with no thought behind how you move, what you put your energy into, who you interact with, stress levels and what you feed your body. With every step I take, I am aware that I am breathing for two. That my body houses another living, breathing human being. (Or a living, breathing baby aspirin at this point.) How have we all arrived by this same, awesome miracle? How have I walked around, oblivious to the power of it? The power of my own body, that I have kept heavily wrapped under clothes, always complaining how I could be leaner, how I need to be stronger, instead of realizing that it contains more srength than I can possibly ever know?

And instead of controlling it, I am merely a witness as it takes on a mind of its own. As the area below my navel begins to get fleshy, as my breasts swell (I mean, it’s ridiculous - I must be the only female in the world who prefers a small chest), as I vacillate between manic bursts of energy and fatigue, as I get more out of breath exercising, I am present to it all.

In many ways, nine months with this kind of awareness seems endless. How will every day not feel like an eternity? But, in other ways, it reminds me of all the wise people of the world: be an observer to your life and all that’s around you. Don’t let culture or pressures of your job dictate who you are and what you will become.

For me, this child is a chance to begin again and see the world through his/her eyes. I don’t want to force my opinions on this being; I don’t want to swat his/her little hand and tell him/her “no” at every juncture. I want my child to have room to explore, to fall, to get up, to be curious, to be calm, to scream at the top of its lungs from excitement – because they are just discovering their voice in this world.

One of my favorite poems is more pertinent now, and I want to share it. It’s from a book I bought a long time ago called Aloud. The poems contained within it are raw and real, and they have spoken to me, throughout the years, no matter how much I’ve grown, where I’ve traveled, or what I think. They are timeless, just like life, just like pregnancy, just like imagination.

Daughter

by Nicole Blackman

One day I’ll give birth to a tiny baby girl

and when she’s born she’ll scream and I’ll make sure she never stops.

I will kiss her before I lay her down

and will tell her a story so she knows

how it is and how it must be for her to survive

I’ll tell her about the power of water

the seduction of paper

the promise of gasoline

and the hope of blood.

I’ll teach her to shave her eyebrows and

mark her skin.

I’ll teach her that her body is

her greatest work of art.

I’ll tell her to light things on fire

and keep them burning.

I’ll teach her that the fire will not consume her,

that she must take it and use it.

I’ll tell her to be tri-sexual, to try anything,

to sleep with, fight with, pray with anyone,

just as long as she feels something.

I’ll help her do her best work when it rains.

I’ll tell her to reinvent herself every 28 days.

I’ll teach her to develop all of her selves,

the courageous ones,

the smart ones,

the dreaming ones,

the fast ones.

I’ll teach her that she has an army inside her

that can save her life.

I’ll tell her to say Fuck like other people say The

and when people are shocked

to ask them why they so fear a small quartet of letters.

I’ll make sure she always carries a pen

so she can take down the evidence.

If she has no paper, I’ll teach her to

write everything down on her tongue,

write it on her thighs.

I’ll help her to see that she will not find God

or salvation in a dark brick building

build by dead men.

I’ll explain to her that it’s better to regret the things

she has done than the things she hasn’t.

I’ll teach her to write her manifestos

on cocktail napkins.

I’ll say she should make men lick her enterprise.

I’ll teach her to talk hard.

I’ll tell her that her skin is the

most beautiful dress she will ever wear.

I’ll tell her that people must earn the right

to use her nickname,

that forced intimacy is an ugly thing.

I’ll make her understand that she is worth more

with her clothes on.

I’ll tell her that when the words finally flow too fast

and she has no use for a pen

that she must quit her job

run out of the house in her bathrobe,

leaving the door open.

I’ll teach her to follow the words.

I’ll tell her to stand up

and head for the door

after she makes love.

When he asks her to

stay she’ll say

she’s got to

go.

I’ll tell her that when she first bleeds

when she is a woman,

to go up to the roof at midnight,

reach her hands up to the sky and scream.

I’ll teach her to be whole, to be holy,

to be so much that she doesn’t even

need me anymore.

I’ll tell her to go quickly and never come back.

I will make her stronger than me.

I’ll say to her never forget what they did to you

and never let them know you remember.

Never forget what they did to you

and never let them know you remember.

Never forget what they did to you

and never let them know you remember.