I expected to like being a mother. 

I expected to be good at being a mother.

I expected to raise children who would appreciate that I wasn’t an embarrassment, not obese or out of style, or driving an old beat up Buick.

My desk had become a fortress of pillows, snacks, and motivational sticky notes from my colleagues that read things like “You can do it!” and “Please don’t give birth on my lunch break!” The snacks were essential, as my unborn child had developed gourmet tastes that could rival a Michelin-starred chef. Pickles dipped in Nutella? Sure. Cheese puffs with a side of strawberry jam? Why not? And my chair had been replaced with an exercise ball, supposedly to help with labor prep but mostly making me feel like a circus act.

My period and I had spent 8-years apart, ever since my first IUD. In truth, I hadn’t thought about it much. And I didn’t know then but in less than a week I would be reunited with both my period and a forgotten feeling.

According to the United States Postal Service website, it’s illegal to send body parts through the mail.

“Heavily restricted,” is a better way to put it. You need the necessary permits, containers, a transport license from the American Association of Mortuary Shippers. There are rules involved, special restrictions; same goes for dry ice and lithium batteries. You can mail live bees, but not medical marijuana. Those thin, translucent lines that keep us from stuffing a toe into a manila envelope on the way to work.

Hasbun Allahi wa nimal wakeel. These words had become my mantra. “God alone is sufficient for us, and He alone can rectify our affairs.” These were the words that I would recite thousands of times a day that winter. I would repeat this phrase in the early morning hours when I couldn’t sleep. As I heard myself murmur the words, my own voice seemed to lull me into a trance-like state, as if I floated out of my body.

Even with a surgical cap and a mask, Mike’s smile still escaped from beyond the barriers of blue polypropylene. He held up the fuzzy hospital socks I was helpless to put on. Without a word, he covered my swollen feet.

The first time I sat in the waiting room, I faced a wall full of Christmas cards and birth announcements.

The second time I sat in the waiting room, Chris sat next to me, reading a book I bought him, which exclaimed in bold letters on the front, “We’re pregnant!” I held a clipboard and grilled him about his family’s medical history. When the doctor turned the monitor screen to face us, Chris couldn’t help but move closer, wanting to get as good a look at our little gummy bear as possible. But he didn’t let go of my hand, and for the first time he was pulled between me and our child.

My heart pounded conspicuously in my chest as my husband and I approached the clinic. I was terrified. What if there were protesters outside? What if they talked to me? What if they asked me why I was there?

On Sunday, I'll discover the meaning of all of this. It'll turn out that it's all about hue. They say that pain, real pain, hardens around a body, ossifies, so that the sufferer can't move or even breathe. Of course, you try to prepare for the pain. It's instinctive; it's part of the process. In the end, it'll turn out that I'd prepared too well.

I stared at the bead of blood. A perfect red pearl on my almost-shoulder.

“I’ll get something for that,” said the nurse. “Here, put some pressure on it.” She pressed a cotton ball against my skin, and I held it there with my pointer finger.

I learned about menstruation from sea monkeys when I was eight or nine. Since then, I haven’t given my body much thought. Maybe that time in Sicily, when I flew off my bike and skinned my knee and elbow, leaving a scar. Or perhaps when my legs sprouted hair and everyone in the sixth grade shaved before my mom let me. But now that we’re trying to have a baby, it’s all I can think about.

I am waking from a dream. No, a nightmare. My temple leans against the cool, foggy window and the sudden movement of the car shifting into gear pulls me forward, causing my head to lift. Consciousness rolls in and I remember why I am here. This is not a dream.