Baby Love by Rebecca Walker

then a little less traffic and then a little less pollution and then voilà: the vast, undulating blue-green sea.
    That was how I tried to hold my first child. As if one day all the arguing and moving about would be over and we would look at each other with the knowledge of all that came before and a deep appreciation for the peace we managed to create. After my separation from his mother, I still hold him that way. As if the cloudy day will pass. As if the distance and lost time will be eclipsed by a newfound togetherness. And it may. But it also may not, and there is very little I can do about it.
    Already, months before his birth, I do not hold my second child this way. For starters, I no longer believe in the redemptive power of the calm after the storm. The wreckage on the shore does not disappear because the winds have moved on. When I think of my baby’s soon-to-be-born face, full of wonder and unmarred by proximity to rage, I register the value of circumnavigating the storm, of moving inland where it is safe. Even though in the moment it may be more difficult, I now prefer to face the challenge rather than be left with the heartbreaking reality of irreparable damage.
    There is also the simple fact that my second child can never be taken from me. We are bound through space and time in the beginningless beginning, that place of infinite mystery. We have met there, on that ground, in a meeting impossible to erase. Even when we are far from each other, we will each possess a fragment of that encounter, buried in the loamy dirt we call our separate selves. I am no longer inexperienced enough to diminish this connection.
    There are other things. My stepmother told me a few days ago, again, that she feels I am one of her children, that she raised me as her own. I love her, and yes, in some ways I am one of her children, but in some ways I am not. It may be difficult to ascertain exactly where the line is between the two, but it is beyond question that the line exists. I can decide to care for my stepmother, for instance, but feeling something for my mother, no matter the state of our relationship, is not something about which I have a choice.
    I find myself nodding as I read about a study that finds that children living with a stepmother receive a good deal less food, health care, and education than they would if they lived with their biological mother. We’re not proud of the way we often preference our biological children, but if we ever want to close the gap, I do think it is something we need to be honest about. I left the conversation with my stepmother thinking, Yes, I would do anything for my first son, within reason. But I would do anything at all for my second child, without reason, without a doubt.
    What does that mean for Solomon and me? Is our relationship stained by my confession that our bond isn’t the same as the one I have with my biological child? Is it damaged if I say out loud that I love him differently?
    I hope not. Solomon will always be my first child. He will forever be the one who inspired me to give endlessly and love selflessly, who showed me that I could become a parent after all. We, too, have a mysterious connection. We appeared in each other’s lives when we needed each other the most.
    In some ways I saved Solomon’s life, and in some ways he saved mine. Without him, my first child, my second child may never have been conceived.
    The fetus is now nearly 3 inches from crown to rump and weighs nearly an ounce—about half a banana. Its unique fingerprints are already in place. And when you poke your stomach gently and she feels it, your baby will start rooting—that is, act as if she’s searching for a nipple.

June 29
    Jesus.
    All I can say is thank goodness I am taking the extra dose of meds. Two days ago I checked my e-mail to find a note from my mother threatening to send an attached statement to the editors of Salon.com in response to an interview I did a couple of weeks ago.
    In a