I was looking for a parking space in a very crowded car park, when suddenly, near the front, a car pulled out in front of me. I quickly turned on my indicator, eager to pull in, and whispered a prayer of thanks. But as I began to do so, I read the sign displayed in front of that space: ‘Parking For Expectant Mothers ONLY.’
I hit the brakes. And just sat there for a moment, before shifting into reverse. ‘For Expectant Mothers ONLY’. Who knew a car park could be so cruel? ‘No barren women allowed.’ The sign could have said: ‘For women whose bodies work right. For women who have had their prayers answered. For women who have something to look forward to. For women with something to expect.’
I still remember it so well. That longing. That wanting to ‘expect’ something. Or someone. I used to walk through the Barnes & Noble book store and see that giant ‘Parenting’ section near the Children’s Books Department. And the rows and rows of ‘What to Expect’ books. I remember the feeling that I had nothing to expect. ‘Because, I expected to be pregnant by now. I expected a lot of things. By now.’
