I am sitting on the floor of our apartment. The zabuton cushion is flat beneath me. The kettle is humming a low, wet note. Outside, a neighbor’s wind chime ( furin ) clinks in the humid August air. And inside me, a second life is doing the strange, quiet calculus of deciding when to enter the world.
Just Before the Birth Again: A Pause in Japan, Heavy with Waiting
The first time, everything was a checklist. Pack the bag. Install the car seat (which, in Tokyo, means wrestling a bassinet onto a bicycle). Learn the Japanese words for epidural ( takumaigai zentai ma sui —a mouthful of consonants when you are in transition). The first birth was a sprint toward the unknown, fueled by anxiety and the naïve bravery of a beginner.
But this time? Just before the birth again, there is no sprint. Just before the birth again- Japan- Pregnant- U...
This is my second pregnancy in Japan. You would think the second time is easier. You would be wrong. It is not harder, necessarily. It is deeper .
There is only the pause.
A quiet corner of Tokyo, Japan Condition: 39 weeks, 4 days. Very pregnant. Very still. I am sitting on the floor of our apartment
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.
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.
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. Outside, a neighbor’s wind chime ( furin )
I also know that my toddler will be waiting at home. He will be eating okonomiyaki with his grandmother. He will look up when I walk through the door and say, “ Okaeri ” (Welcome home) before he even looks at the baby.
I am no longer a tourist in this country, nor am I a seasoned local. I am something in between: a mother waiting for a second child to arrive. The cherry blossoms have long since fallen. The rainy season came and went. Now, it is the dog days of summer, and the cicadas ( minminzemi ) are screaming their death song. It feels appropriate. Something old is about to end. Something new is about to scream.
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.
Let’s not romanticize it too much. I am scared.
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.