Читать книгу Passing For black - Linda Villarosa - Страница 8

A chorus of raspy moans and high-pitched screams ripped through the thin walls of the delivery room. I clamped my hands over my ears to blot out the sounds of pain. Hadn’t the hospital heard of soundproofing? Though my baby wasn’t coming for another couple of hours, I felt like joining in. I wouldn’t be screaming in pain, but terror.

With contractions every two minutes, I knew it was way too late for second thoughts. It wasn’t that motherhood didn’t interest me. But a baby hadn’t been anywhere near the top of my to-do list. Learning to play the guitar, kayaking down the Colorado River and a trip to Brazil were much higher. Motherhood was in my future—someday, a long way off. I guess my idea was to start reproducing in my late thirties after accomplishing career goals—like being the editor of my own magazine or writing a book of essays. I didn’t believe all the alarmist crap about a woman’s eggs drying up at thirty-five. That was just another ploy to make women who loved their work feel like un-pretty losers, waiting to shrivel up and shuffle away.

But all of this was academic. In the concrete here and now, there was a baby—my baby—banging its way out of the womb and into the world.