There was time when Koopa was fascinated with babies. At first he wanted to have a baby sister. Then, after someone helpfully pointed out to him that boys usually want a baby brother, he adjusted his desires to make them more gender appropriate. He was never particularly impatient about getting a sibling (perhaps because, being an introvert, he never felt the need to have a constant playmate?), but he was always certain that getting one was just a matter of time. Every statement he made regarding the matter started not with “if” but with “when” (“When I’m a big brother, I’ll….), and I didn’t correct him, myself hoping for the “when”. Then, in the last few months, the months ridden with anxieties due to our recent move to a new country, his interest in babies seemed to have waned. Now, when asked about the preferred gender of a potential sibling, he would honestly reply that he would prefer a labrador, reasonably explaining that “he won’t mess up the toys in [his] room”. But I knew that the interest was still there. I mean, somebody must have downloaded the ugly graphics game called “Newborn Baby Care” onto my phone (where you’re supposed to care for pregnant ladies and then deliver and care for their babies), and I promise it wasn’t me.
I waited well past the first twelve weeks to tell him. Partially because I wanted to be 150% sure there was somebody in there. But also because I wanted to savour the moment of seeing him learn the news for the first time. We were sitting at the kitchen table and he was performing an ultrasound on some pregnant lady who came to see him in his “Newborn Baby Care” game. I pulled out the pictures from my first ultrasound and asked him if he knew what it was. He didn’t. I said it’s an ultrasound picture of a baby in my belly, just like the ones in your game. A baby? It’s ME? No, it’s not you, it’s another baby in my belly. A very long pause. “There is a baby in your belly?” “Yes”. “Right now?” he said, suddenly turning into his public self and glancing at my abdomen the way he would look at a stranger in the room: with suppressed interest and suspicion. “Yes, right now.” Another long pause. His voice turned into gentle almost-whisper, as if not to wake the baby: “I want to kiss your belly”, climbing off his chair. Lifted my t-shirt and gave my belly a long and most gentle kiss. Lingered a little, then rose and started to back out of the room, his eyes still pinned to my abdomen. “What’s wrong? Why are you leaving?” I asked. “I’m… I’m worried that I will kick your tummy and hurt the baby”. “No, no, you won’t hurt it, come back…” It took quite some effort to convince him to come back and sit on my lap. He sat on the very edge, all the while anxiously looking back on my belly and asking if the baby was still ok.
He’s become my pregnancy police, strict and vigilant. “Mama, promise me that you won’t drink any beer of wine. PROMISE.” “Mama, eat your vegetables, the baby needs all the vitamins!” “Mama, are you sure you’re allowed to run? The baby won’t fall out of your belly? Because I really REALLY want to become a big brother.” I feel like he’s already well on his way to becoming a big brother. They say that a woman becomes a mother as soon as she gets pregnant. Well, it feels like Koopa became a big brother as soon as he learned I’m pregnant.
He’s always been very sweet and gentle, but has become tenderness itself since learning the news. He now talks to the baby and gently kisses my belly several times a day. He kisses my belly goodbye through my coat when I drop him off at school. He kisses it whenever he wants to let someone know that he’s on his way to becoming a big brother and is unable to use his words (because he still doesn’t talk to people outside close family and friends).
But also, predictably, a new wave of anxieties followed. Nowadays, when I’m angry at him for some mischief, he cries “Mama, I’m worried that the baby will think I’m a bad person!” Or, recently, at bedtime: “Mama, I’m worried that you’ll love the baby more than you love me, will you?” “Well. You are my favorite big boy in the entire world. And the baby will be my favorite baby in the entire world.” That seemed to settle it.
“Mama, when I grow up, I’ll build a special shield made of metal that mommies could wear to protect the babies in their bellies. So that bad people wouldn’t hit their bellies. And… and on the shield it will say ‘there is no baby in here’ so that bad people will think there is no baby in there and will not do anything to hurt it.”