Angela Natividad's Live & Uncensored!

24 November 2023

A shortlist of gratitudes

  • Marvis Matcha Green Tea toothpaste. It's delightful.
  • Caitlin, who talked me into getting a tongue scraper. I worry less about bad breath.
  • A sensual, lovely pregnancy with no swollen limbs, in which all my senses are attuned to beauty.
  • A partner who takes showing up seriously, who takes our thriving—individually, and together—even more seriously, and who makes me laugh nonstop. Even remembering the rare times we've fought makes me laugh.
  • My sweet and nurturing apartment.
  • Our shared home in Italy, and the in-laws across the garden who always have a kiss and a hot plate ready. Or just eggs. We always need eggs.
  • Being pregnant, and matrescing generally, in the French system. Sometimes it is overbearing and drives me crazy, but the attention to care, and the rigour, are legit. I feel so safe.
  • My friends, who have coalesced into family, closing ranks as I grow larger and more vulnerable. They show up with food or baby stuff, give me their arms when we go for walks, lift me literally to my feet. They have flown in from different countries, or rolled up from the 'burbs or the other side of Paris. They have loved me with delicacy and humour.
  • My actual family—my cousin who encourages me like a boxing coach, my sisters who gossip with me, my parents whose anticipation for this child borders on the frightening.
  • Pierre Hermé and Alain Ducasse.
  • Persimmons. I live in terror of running out of persimmons. They also remind me of my lola. Ancestors—what we inherit, what we owe to the future—is heavy on my mind.
  • The restaurant that makes perfect pie.
  • My community. After 15 years in this city, I'm finally in a 'hood where I feel installed, an acknowledged part of the fauna.
  • The stories strangers tell about their children, births, pregnancies, breastfeeding woes. People are always giving me stories, but pregnancy makes cups overflow with memories from these particular initiatory gates. This is probably the closest thing we have to being washed and fed by your kin, your neighbours, your people, before traversing said gates yourself. It is an intimate ritual we can't shake off. We don't even know we are doing it, and I am glad it is stronger than our belief in "progress."
  • Seasons.
  • Paris. Paris every day. Paris in the rain, Paris when it's grey, I don't care. This city is my mother. She called me once and I have never regretted answering. I will love her until I die.
  • My new gym ball. I can't wait to drape my arms over it, breathe into my lower back, and feel the pain slide off me like raindrops.
  • Maté, and the man who sells it to me.
  • Bright, vivid colours. It took me so long to love colour. I'm glad I finally got here.

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