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An Incomplete History of Becoming a Mother

Words by Sarah Seldomridge | Pictures by Sarah Seldomridge and Eduardo Espada

A mixed media illustration of a pink uterus on red scribbles, with the handwritten text: An Incomplete History of Becoming a Mother. Words by Sarah Seldomridge, Pictures by Sarah Seldomridge & Eduardo Espada
A mixed media collage with a photo of Barbie wearing illustrated roller skates in the foreground and four identical Ken doll photographs in the background over a watercolor landscape of green hills and trees. Handwritten text reads: I don’t remember playing Mama in my childhood games of house. My house was a city apartment and I was on an adventure. I was a championship roller skater touring cross-country. There was romance, with my pairs partner of course, and a parade of Kens. The dream was always to be older. Then I would be free.
The photographs of busts of Ken dolls are placed in mixed media collage over a watercolor background of skyscrapers. Handwritten text reads: I did live in an apartment! I did have romance! I drove cross-country and slept in vans and tents. I made pictures and poems and kept all my windows open. I was not in the Peace Corps and didn’t run a Fortune 500 company, but I heard the wind sing through my dangly earrings.
Handwritten text wraps the back half of a mixed media collage of a bicycle. A photographed bird sits on the wheel, which has Pantone color swatches for spokes. Behind the image are purple scribbles. The text reads: When I got a job in the same art store as Eduardo, I knew that all the ones I’d loved before were part of another storyline. But our plot was drawn in archival ink on 300-pound hot-press rag paper, and we talked and drew and held each other all night. Ed is a heart with arms and legs. He taught me how to ride my bike in the city without fear.
Handwritten text wraps the front half of a mixed media collage of a bicycle. The spokes of the wheel are Pantone color swatches, and the background has purple and green scribbles. The text reads: We moved into an apartment together! We had romance! I began to contemplate the moral question of having kids: population growth and the environmental impact of extra mouths to feed and clean with plastic tubes of toothpaste. Was I a bad feminist to want to try? Would losing my freedom make me free? I got pregnant on the first try.
A close-up of the left half of an ultrasound picture of an empty womb, illustrated with black and white and grey strokes. The handwritten text reads: “I saw the magnified beating heart and bought one long black maternity dress. I told my mom and a few friends and my coworker guessed.” Inside a black circle in the middle of the page, text reads, “But when Eduardo came to the doctor with me to see, my womb was dark and empty. I took pills to make the bleeding come faster. I was thirty-seven.”
A close-up of the right half of an ultrasound picture of an empty womb, illustrated with black and white and grey strokes. The handwritten text reads: “After six months of sex on cue and waiting and waiting and peeing on sticks, we went to a specialist who recommended tests to find out the shapes of uterus and sperms. I was told that photos of my perfect uterus would be studied by med students. But still, it would be harder for me. I am thirty-eight. The ideal is to be younger. Then you are more free.
A mixed media collage of four painted Easter eggs against a background of soil and grass and sky. Cut-out photographs of syringes stand vertically as if injecting the eggs. Handwritten texts reads: A box the size of a bassinet arrives. You clean the skin and shoot them up; it’s not as bad as it looks. When you feel your ovaries knocking like doors, it’s time to retrieve the eggs. It’s Easter, the literal Sunday, and I am put under and then come to hearing the doctor’s favorite recipe for pork chops. I’m a standard widget, another day at the office. If I didn’t live in a state that made my insurance cover all of this—if I didn’t have insurance—I would not be on this table. I might even have decided it was all too sci-fi.
A mixed media collage of four painted Easter eggs against a background of soil and grass and sky. Cut-out photographs of syringes stand vertically as if injecting the eggs. Handwritten texts reads: “Five days later, the doctor implants the very best embryo created collaboratively by Eduardo, me, and a medical team. I am awake with him beside me. We watch the embryo travel onscreen while the doctor talks about lawn care. They tell you not to take a pregnancy test for fear of false positives. Two weeks later they test your blood and call you. I get pregnant on the first try.”
Handwritten text wraps the left half of a mixed media illustration of a pink uterus on red scribbles. A gun in the foreground of the uterus fires a yellow flag that says BANG! The text reads: “On a Friday night, I feel a rush of pain that spreads over my pelvis. By Saturday night, I am writhing on the bed, unable to sleep. Eduardo calls the on-call doctor and they ask him what I ate. “Why would you eat Thai food?” They ask. For three lost days, I’m left to believe it’s indigestion. On Monday morning, Eduardo drives me to the ER.”
Handwritten text wraps the right half of a mixed media illustration of a pink uterus on red, blue and green scribbles. A small fetus floats in the uterus. Text reads: “A sonogram shows my ovary twisted around three times. Ovarian torsion—a complication rarely seen. After surgery, the doctor gives me an unsolicited sheet of full-color photos featuring both of my ovaries—one side healthy and clean, the other purple and dead, removed. “Great pics for the baby book,” I say.. “To prove you didn’t take a kidney.” I am prescribed oxycodone so I am able to rise and use the bathroom. I am told this is fine. I am told Sudafed, wine, sliced turkey, sushi and Advil are not fine.”
In the middle of handwritten text, a mixed media collage of an ivory bassinet with a cat sitting at its foot. The text reads: “Trimester three. I am thirty-nine. The cat sits on my belly. We have a bassinet in an empty room and I’ve grown round and strange. Every time I go to the doctor, they print a report: advanced maternal age, hypothyroidism, oophorectomy, fetal exposure to drugs in utero. But Alanis Morissette is forty-five and also pregnant; and this feels like good luck. And when I am still, I can feel you dance and hiccup. From outside, Ed can feel you too. Soon you will live in our apartment, in the city, with us.”

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