Let’s not romanticize it too much. I am scared.
In the West, we pack hospital bags with lavender oil, music playlists, and affirmations. In Japan, my hospital provided a list so specific it felt like a scientific inventory: 2 muji notebooks, 10 pairs of disposable underwear, a yukata for walking the halls, and cash. Always cash. Just before the birth again- Japan- Pregnant- U...
The first time, everything was a checklist. Pack the bag. Install the car seat (which, in Tokyo, means wrestling a bassinet onto a bicycle). Learn the Japanese words for epidural ( takumaigai zentai ma sui —a mouthful of consonants when you are in transition). The first birth was a sprint toward the unknown, fueled by anxiety and the naïve bravery of a beginner. Let’s not romanticize it too much
In a few days, I will no longer be pregnant. I will be a mother of two. The house will smell of formula and laundry detergent. The toddler will have a meltdown. The baby will cry. In Japan, my hospital provided a list so
My firstborn, a toddler with gravity-defying hair and a love for onigiri , is napping in the next room. He has no idea that his world is about to split in two. I look at his small hand, curled around a plastic shinkansen toy, and I feel the guilt already. The quiet, universal guilt of the mother who dares to love another child.
I also know that my toddler will be waiting at home. He will be eating okonomiyaki with his grandmother. He will look up when I walk through the door and say, “ Okaeri ” (Welcome home) before he even looks at the baby.
If you are reading this from a coffee shop in London, or a living room in New York, or a similar apartment in Osaka—take a breath. The waiting is the labor, too. The waiting is the work.