A literary novel in progress.

In the fictional metropolis of Varma, built on autonomy and self-design, an unnamed woman becomes a mother. Pregnancy dismantles the life she built. Her body acts; attachment forms. Her freedom collapses.

Oxytocin traces a self reorganized—revealing how little of it was ever in control.

Excerpt:

It came early to me that I don’t like children. I never found them cute or sweet. Quite the contrary—I was indifferent to them. When I was in elementary school, all my friends had baby dolls. They were feeding them and lulling them, changing imaginary diapers. 

I liked to play horses. Supposedly riding a horse. Running in fields, feeling the long dry grass scraping my naked calves. They hated it.  They wanted to be mothers, with husbands and Sunday barbecues. Even their Barbies had kids.

And I was bored, but I needed friends. So, I compromised. I was a bit ashamed, too, now that I’m thinking about it. 

Lonely with no siblings. 

My friend Maria put her baby doll under my shirt, so I looked pregnant. Then I gave birth and she baptized the baby. She got a small plastic bassinet and filled it up with water, then added some olive oil and started. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. 

My mother squinted her eyes by the door. She was an atheist. 

I was worried about the spilled water on the carpet. During spring and summer we baptized my child in the garden so all good. 

The doll changed names every day. One day was a Helen, then a Hector. I grew to like it—Maria liked to come over to my house. My mom always brought us ice-cream.

At the same time being a mother—it was a distant thing that I never really questioned. Thus: of course I would be one in the future. The same feeling you have about marriage, university or getting your driver’s license when you’re a kid. A vague goal of your future self. 

An idea. I didn’t know then that this would not remain theoretical.

That a body could decide something else.

That a child would enter my life.

As a young adult, other things were important to me. Like a handbag. Epigenetics: how meditation, kale juice, and yoga could change my gene expression. 

Affection. Even if I didn’t know what affection was. 

Adam. 

Any Adam taking me out for thoughtful dates. 

My highlights and fillers. 

The scale. 

Lulemonn tights. 

My therapist. 

My lists and lists, as I used to say. Assessing the day. 

I remember my oldest cousin Marianna, who had a baby when I was ten. I was curious to see the little person. Of course, I’d seen babies before—but I had never touched one. Or smelled one.

The baby was nine months old, chubby, and admittedly cute. The smell of milk, vomit and poo slapped me in the face. But beneath the unpleasantness, I caught something else: a scent of fresh. Of new human.

I touched his sausage-like thigh. My fingers sank into the plushness of his skin—like the cotton balls my mother used to take her makeup off.

“Do you want to hold him?” Marianna asked me,

I didn’t really want to. I was so scared I’d drop him. His palpability, his flexibility—it made me tremendously anxious.

I was suddenly responsible for his existence.

But I did. I held him. 

He was heavier than I thought. I didn’t know babies had density. I stood there, arms stiff, adjusting every few seconds. Marianna had left the room. She was nowhere in sight. And I was alone with him until he started giggling. 

I shifted him slightly, turning him so he faced me, his head wobbling a little—and then our eyes met.

He squealed softly and pressed his open palm against my jaw. His palm was damp and fleshy, and it clung lightly to my cheek.

And then I felt it. 

The warmth. 

The soft expansion of my chest. 

Melting heartbeats.

It must have been oxytocin. 

It was more than euphoria. A state with no agenda.

However, that was it. I’ve never held another baby other than mine.  Kitties or puppies. I had a canary once, but I freed him on a summer day. 

*All names, brands, and details within the economy of this work are fictional.