Again- Japan- Pregnant- U...: Just Before The Birth

In a few days, I will no longer be pregnant. I will be a mother of two. The house will smell of formula and laundry detergent. The toddler will have a meltdown. The baby will cry.

If you are reading this from a coffee shop in London, or a living room in New York, or a similar apartment in Osaka—take a breath. The waiting is the labor, too. The waiting is the work.

The world has become very small.

I remember the pain of the first birth. I remember the moment the contractions stopped being “waves” and started being a house falling on my spine. I remember the kanji on the hospital wall that I couldn’t read, and the nurse who spoke only Japanese, and the terrifying moment when I realized I had to translate my own moans. Just before the birth again- Japan- Pregnant- U...

In the West, we pack hospital bags with lavender oil, music playlists, and affirmations. In Japan, my hospital provided a list so specific it felt like a scientific inventory: 2 muji notebooks, 10 pairs of disposable underwear, a yukata for walking the halls, and cash. Always cash.

Mata ne. (See you soon.)

But this time, I know something I didn’t know then. I know that the pain ends. I know that the baby comes. I know that the moment they place that wet, furious, perfect creature on your chest, the world snaps back into focus. In a few days, I will no longer be pregnant

— A very pregnant mother in Tokyo.

Let’s not romanticize it too much. I am scared.

A quiet corner of Tokyo, Japan Condition: 39 weeks, 4 days. Very pregnant. Very still. The toddler will have a meltdown

That is the miracle of the second birth. You are not just bringing a child into the world. You are bringing a sibling. You are exploding one universe to create a larger one.

Right now, as I type this, the baby is doing somersaults. A foot—or maybe an elbow—is dragging across my right rib. I am drinking barley tea ( mugicha ) which is supposedly cooling for the blood. I am watching the shadows grow long on the tatami mats.

That is Japan’s gift to the pregnant woman: Anonymity. No one stares. No one touches your belly. No one asks invasive questions. They simply bow, step aside, and give you the priority seat on the train. There is a gentle, unspoken respect for the burden you carry.

But just before the birth again, there is this. A quiet room in Japan. A full belly. A heart that is breaking and healing in the same beat.