“be not of those who are shut out as by a veil.”

They vibrate my insides when I walk around too much or drink soda water. I feel it on the outside, my lower belly in specific spots, like there are two small pagers inside my uterus going off at various points in time. Their inch and a half long bodies wiggling around and vibrating my organs.

It’s a weird feeling.

Screen Shot 2017-10-13 at 2.53.45 PMThat they are there and that they aren’t and it’s hard to wrap my mind around anything that isn’t immediate sometimes.

I’m find that most of pregnancy is spent under this veil. It’s hard to see two feet in front of you and all you can do is feel.

It’s hard when most of your feelings are nausea, projectile vomiting, worry and anxiety, and the stress of life around you. That veil becomes darker, less sheer, and you become more blind to the future.

It’s right now, this moment, this second and all you need is for others to understand, but you are quickly finding out that pregnancy is an exclusive club.

And a hard start to pregnancy is it’s own room in that club.

My wife is extremely sensitive. So am I.

It’s weird and it’s a fault of mine to have more expectations of my wife than if my partner was a man because she is a woman. The expectation still from her experience of dealing with hormones from her period and cycle. It’s an unfair expectation and I can’t say that it would be the same if she were a man.

But it becomes hard when your veiled. Your words don’t make as much sense anymore. You aren’t able to preform simple tasks because you’re too tired or nauseated. You’re hormonal and weepy or irritated or needy and I’ve tried so, so hard to control most of it – more so than I’ve seen others do with their husbands – but its hard.

How do you control such hard emotions that you live in? How do you need someone there to take care of you but not want to put too much onto them?

The worse is adding in a cross country move to the mix and it’s so easy to feel so overwhelmed that you start to not be able to even know who you are. You’re just this mess of something that is desperately trying to survive and remember exactly why this is worth it.

Then you see them.

Their legs crossed and arms moving and they look so much like tiny humans now. They have teeth growing under their gums and their organs are starting to work and they are developing sexes and their brains are growing, growing, growing so fast.

We hear their hearts ticking away at night – Esther is easier to find while Agnes is farther back – cushier.

They are there.

They’re growing.

And I am doing that – I am following the map that my wife left inside me and I am growing these two humans who will have thoughts, personalities, needs, and who are noble.

In these moments of realization, the veil becomes a bit more sheer and you are able to start to see a little bit farther.

You’re their mother – their mama. You are nurturing them and caring for them. I am already making decisions about their health, their wellbeing, and where they will spend the first moments of their lives.

I’m fiercely protective over them – over their autonomy, over the magic that we want to create for/with them, over how we are going to live our lives once they are here – and I am a dreamer when it comes to them. I fall asleep imagining them on our bed wiggling around, kicking each other, reaching for each other.

I imagine their conversations about the world at three years old, seven, ten, twenty. I imagine who they will turn out to be with autonomy, independence, and a home that fights against injustice. I say prayers from Abdu’l-Baha as I drift off to sleep or when I am too stressed. I read the texts for guidance.

We are one forth of the way there (or a little over one third, two babies become tricky with timing).

I pray they continue to thrive, to grow and be nourished by my love and warmth and thoughts.

They’re safe here, inside me.

I’ve started my weaning period of my hormones. I didn’t want to stop cold turkey even though their placentas are doing more than enough right now.

We are moving in a few days.

I’m on a stronger medication for the vomiting and nausea that makes me feel semi-normal.

I’m trying.

I’m trying to be conscious. I’m trying to feel them more. I’m trying to believe in hope rather than feel hopeless.

The veil is there and I’m sure it’s there until they’re born, but today its a bit easier to see through it than others.

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