On motherhood and travel
The first time I traveled as a mother, it was a secret. I flew to Paris for work in the Spring when I was 10 weeks along, subsisting on ginger chewing gum to keep the nausea at bay. Paris may be the city of love, but it is no friend to the newly secret-pregnant: offers of soft cheeses, red wine and cigarettes made for elaborate excuses and nervous laughter. Do they know? Can they tell? I spent a precious afternoon wandering by myself in the Marais, hand over my not-yet-different stomach, dreaming of a small person I could hardly comprehend. A shapeless white jellybean held within a larger black jellybean on the sonogram. I bought a grey and white striped onesie (“Your mama bought this for you in Paris!”) and stroked the soft velour, dreaming and marveling that I might will a human into life to fit the suit.
The second time I traveled as a mother I went to Turkey with my husband. I was four months along and only just beginning to look pregnant, if I protectively smoothed down the lines of my clothes and placed a hand on my stomach. Transiting through Germany, a security officer asked me “Are you traveling alone?”, smiling and nodding knowingly at my mid-section. On this trip, we luxuriated in the independence of travel. We would never be so unencumbered again! We can be so spontaneous! I was unusually careful as a traveler: holding handrails walking into the underground city of Kaymakli, thinking of all the mothers who had walked the same stairs over centuries before me. Istanbul — a strange and beautiful in-between land of neither West nor East — seemed the ideal place to think about our liminal state. We looked out onto the harbour and heard the call the prayer, and felt neither like parents nor non-parents; responsibility teetering nearby but still out of reach. We spoke about plans and intentions and I felt the faint flutter of my son inside.
The third time I traveled as a mother, my snug newborn rested in my arms as we left San Francisco for Sydney. I felt a strong pull to introduce our son — an American citizen — to our families and homeland. A tiny, warm presence snuggled into the crook of my arm for most of that flight, occasionally waking to stretch or eat. His soft cries were no competition for the loud whoosh of the engine. Other mothers smiled and gave words of encouragement — one even offered to hold him for awhile — but we stayed connected together for the whole 14 hours. His small head fitted easily into my hand, his hot breath fast and shallow on my neck as we sped impossibly across the skies in a sleek, silver machine.
This trip, though, is different. I’m traveling alone for a week in Seoul — picking up a new visa to start an exciting new job. The thought of having to leave my son for a week was a wretched one, so I decided to come to Korea, a place I had visited once before and loved. On this trip, I glided through security. Removing a laptop and my shoes seemed comically easy compared to the stroller dance to which I was becoming accustomed. I looked longingly at mothers with children of all ages, the noises of their babies sounding nothing like mine (but also exactly like mine). I sat in the lounge, and looked at my reflection in the large panes of glass separating the waiting passengers from their waiting vessels. I had no visible signifiers of motherhood. No food in my hair, no baby paraphernalia in my bag and no babe in my arms. I had snuck one of my son’s suits into my luggage, but otherwise you had to look closely for anything to separate me from anyone else. (My tired eyes and wan skin did nothing to distinguish me from a room full of businessmen, puffy and intensely focused on spreadsheets). And it struck me. The very public journey of pregnancy — oh the commentary and touches from strangers! — abruptly ends when you give birth, and while the real umbilical cord is severed, the metaphorical one winds ever invisibly tighter.
My son uncharacteristically cried the first night I was gone. I lay in a bed on the other side of the world messaging my husband, offering futile suggestions for relief. I realize the fantasies I had for this trip were projected from a pre-motherhood self. Amongst other things, I wanted to read, to explore a city, to sit in coffee shops, to take photographs and to sleep and wake on my own schedule. And I’ve done all these things and enjoyed them deeply. But my eyes are different. I still scan the pavement for the most stroller-friendly path. I seek out toy shops and note the locations of mothers’ rooms. And in the quiet, early morning fog of jet lag, I am entranced by the Dropcam broadcast on my phone, my fingers hovering over his rising and falling chest, his small fingers occasionally gripping the rails of his crib.
I have loved being away, and yet feel a simultaneous compulsion to return. William Gibson writes of jet lag being like “soul-delay”, that one’s soul can’t move as fast as an airplane, so it is “left behind, and must be awaited, upon arrival, like lost luggage”. It seems motherhood, too, takes time to come into effect. Like the nine months of pregnancy mark an evolution and a mental acceptance of what’s to come, so too do the many months afterwards. The swings toward and the swings away. The acceptance of and the rebellion against change. The desire for independence and the equal, competing wish for a sticky embrace.
Tomorrow I’ll return to my family, with photographs and stories to share. I’ll stop walking in Asia and start walking again in the US. My fingers can’t wait to stroke his hair, to inhale him, to feel his weight on me, to see if he’s changed in our week apart. This was the first time we have been separated for so long, and it will not be the last. There will be trips to come. Trips made apart from each other and trips made together. Trips like this one where I’ll crave his laughter and miss his scent, and others where I’ll tire of his strong, wriggling body on my lap, trying to wrest his freedom.
No, I’m not traveling alone, and the world looks very different now.
