I’m Scared of Babies and Pregnant Women

                Pregnancy.  A natural thing. Woman is the life-bringer. Nine months. Nine fat, disfigured, pitiful, lazy, uncomfortable months. Child is the product. Weak, disgusting, eating, things that crap carelessly and carry judgment in their eyes. You don’t like me?, they say as I avoid eye contact as they spit-up in my visibility, or as I hold them arms-length away when one is forced my unwanted arms. They cry, screaming to everyone in the room how un-maternal and sickened I am.


As I expose my phobia, I do so with the backing of disturbing facts in my mind. Roe v. Wade has indeed worked against the Black community in making it easier for Black women to easily destroy themselves with invasive surgeries to kill the future and birth control that goes against the cycles of nature, sometimes robbing us of our ability have children when we want to. The Guttmacher Institute, a pro-abortion group, reports that 1,784 blacks are aborted each day. Three out of five pregnant African-American women will obtain an abortion.
Abortion has been used as a means of hindering population growth for racial minorities, which is why Planned Parenthood are strategically located in poor and minority communities as a means of genocide. As a Black woman, I fight myself on my fear versus my knowledge and activism, and find it paradoxical that I feel this way. But on I write…

I noticed my fear of babies, children, and pregnant women very young. I was six years old when my mother was pregnant with my younger brother. I watched her as she went from a modest-sized woman with ample capacities to a rounder, more tired woman, who looked absolutely pitiful. The bigger her stomach became, the more pitiful she looked. She complained about pains she never had before. She ate and acted awkwardly. She couldn’t run down the steps with me to go outside. And for some reason, I just wanted to push her over and squash that stupid growth, this cancer in her stomach that made her slower and more dependent on others. She could not carry as many grocery bags as before. And I cannot stress it more: she was sooo slow. I have never been too sympathetic or patient, but when I realized that she has done that to herself, I spited her.

She had me. I was a good kid, right? Good grades, did sports, and with all that she had put me through with basically leasing me to my father to teach us both a lesson (him that he was incapable of taking care of a child, me that he had no better living situation than I had with her), she decided while I’m gone to get this replacement family with an abusive husband (who loves living in danger zones) and a brand-new me! I was beyond done, to come into a situation where your father doesn’t have the balls to tell you, “It’s just not working out” so he coerces his mom to “drop you off to see mommy” and NEVER comes back. So now I’m the unwanted add-on to this family portrait. Everyone is awaiting this brand new bundle of joy that is supposed to exit my disfigured image of a mom who used to love just me in October… And I’m old, seven-year-old archived news.

Well, if I couldn’t have my mom and my dad together, like things were supposed to be, I knew where I could find what I wanted: my godparents, Judy and Allen.  Judy had been bowling buddies with my paternal grandmother, Susie. Judy desperately wanted a child, but found it impossible to have one for years. Allen had children but they were all grown. Through years of him only being a breadwinner and not a real father to his kids, I think he saw me as a second chance. I felt his admiration every time I looked at him. He was everything I wanted in my father. Judy was amazing as well. She was a fun-loving person, a traditionalist and an independent woman wrapped up into one. She loved to cook and clean, and her home always looked like the houses in magazines. But she was a worker as well. She made her own money and could handle on her own if need-be. Her want for a child fit in with my want for a loving female figure, and we happily fulfilled each others wishes. Her home and lifestyle was my vacation away from the sadness, loneliness and bitter anger I felt at home. They both treated me like I was their own wanted child. All-in-all, Judy and Allen were the perfect couple, and they modeled the expectations of a relationship in my young eye.

I remember when Qadir was born. His father said he looked just like me. I was so disgusted and angry by his statement. If he’s a facsimile of me, he needs to GO. I hated my brother. He was cute, but all he did was scream and soil himself, yet he was the one who received all of the attention. There were distinct differences in our conceptions that played hugely in my acceptance to this new step-father and step-family I was being forced into. Qadir was wanted and planned under the guise of marriage, and I was the mistake, the bastard child my mother dropped at nineteen. My mother could have been anything if she hadn’t had me at such a young age. She was in the military, and had dreams of finishing her services and going to college by way of the government. My mother graduated on June 24, 1988; I was born in June of 1989. She WAS GONE, serving, until she became pregnant with HIM. And she never went back after him. She was fine leaving me alone. But him? Not even for Qadir, but for HIM, she never went back. She was willing to entrust everyone with my raising so that she could pursue her dream in spite of me, but decided to be a good mother and a good wife for THEM. I became very hateful towards my mother because of her choices. She should have aborted me at 19. She should have aborted him at 25. She should have never been married that early. Her life could have turned out so much better.

She says she got exactly what she wanted. A boy and a girl. She received her 2nd priority child first, and because of her bad choices, I learned early that I could not depend on her to express my feelings to her, help me with my homework, give me advice, or tell her that her husband hurt me. I did not trust her. Instead of working with me until I understood that my father had issues, she sent me away at 5 years old to shut me up and learn the hard way that he was bad news. And she punished him for his mistake of impregnating her with me. And while she’s swung the keys to this penal sentence of a year of non-stop father-child interaction, she tried to start her life anew. My punishment for being born has lead to a lifetime of feeling inadequate in her eyes, even when I did the best at every task that was given to me. A’s. Awards. Ceremonies. Honors. Scholarships. Acceptances. A diploma. Free rides to college near and far. Meaningless.

Even now, as I pursue two bachelor’s degrees, and I edge closer to becoming the only person in my family to have one, I feel lower than my brother, who has never achieved the caliber of educational success that I had at his age. Like a baby’s functionality, he has been gazed over and marveled for doing nothing more but shitting and eating and crying. And yet she still admires him. Even with the support of my teachers, my grandmother, and my godparents, I never forgave my brother for his existence, and I never believed that my mother loved me as much as she loved her son.

So maybe that’s why I hate kids.

A fear of children and babies is called pedophobia.
A fear of pregnancy is called tocaphobia.

About this entry