I can't even say I like it that much.
For some reason, admitting this causes people to look at you either as some blasphemous anti-woman who goes around slapping rosy-cheeked cherubs for sport, or as just another woman with body image issues.
Once again, our chronic inability to have nuanced, individualized discussions strikes down another victim. Like most facets of life, the extremes dictate the narratives, which disperse into the atmosphere and then rematerialize in the mouths of chatty patrons who lie waiting in check out lines in every city across America. And because thoughtful conversations are rare birds, and the ability to allow conflicting states of being to exist side by side is an almost unheard of talent, we all must be one or the other.
The great gift of quarantine has been the sparing of any unsolicited conversations with strangers in public. The conversation always gets funneled into one direction: this is magical, it's perfect, it's wonderful! And it's the kind of funnel you'd find pressed to your lips at a ritual frat hazing. Some slovenly oppressor is forcing you to drink the mantra- it's magical, it's perfect, it's wonderful!
One viewpoint. One possibility. Chug, chug, chug. Even if you're looking for a buzz, moments later you're face down in a rose bush out for the count.
If you dare say, "Actually I am looking forward to this being over..."
Another cherub slapped.
And of course, there are the influencers. I follow a number of women who share their fitness and nutrition routines throughout their pregnancy journeys. When you are pregnant, you have a real need to connect to others who are going through it too. But the land of social media motherhood is often a place only reached by climbing a magical giant beanstalk. Sadly, most of us will only ascend as high as our magical cereal encrusted mid-range crossovers can take us.
One woman I follow struggled greatly to get pregnant with each of her children, so many of her posts are filled with tears of joy and endless expressions of happiness. And rightly so. It is a hard-fought victory and hers to revel in. She beams with a glow that comes partly from her journey and partly from being outfitted by high end pregnancy retailers that adorn her with free outfits that would run the rest of us about one month's mortgage payment per romper.
Another plans to have a very large family and welcomes each stage with eagerness and enthusiasm. Like many social media stars, she appears to have a very nice home, very nice things with all of the stylish organic companies sending her free goods almost every day- goods which she probably could easily afford on her own.
And still another spends her days crafting perfect workout plans for expectant and postpartum moms. She worked hard for her body and also is blessed with genes that express themselves through minimal weight gain and a small baby-filled belly. She has become an ambassador for several boutique training and apparel companies, which give her free access to all of their programs, support resources and a endless supply of super cute and comfy outfits.
And just because I'm typing this while wearing my husband's old workout shirt that I rescued from the trash can- one of several that I curated for my late-stage pregnancy wardrobe- doesn't mean I'm jealous. Even when you factor in the body oil and lotion stains that draw the eye in a circular motion around the middle of the garment. Their life is not my life. I'm sure I'd be cured of a grumpy mood here and there if free baby carriers, maternity leggings and cashmere newborn diapers were showing up on my doorstep. Hell, I might even smile at the neighbors while I give myself a hernia squatting down to grab the box.
And of course, there is the other end of the spectrum. The campaigns working towards the normalization of depression, overwhelm and an injured body. The physical and mental toll that pregnancy and motherhood take on women is nothing to joke about or make light of. And the world is a very inconsiderate place for women trying to raise their babies- whether exclusively or while working. But we need to carve out a few notches for women to perch their woes and aggravations upon before diagnosing them with a disorder. Often the issue is not due to a physiological misfire, the issue is that we are tired, unsupported and having to go without meeting some pretty major needs. Over diagnosing insults those who are truly suffering and traps those who are just having normal complaints about life into some clinically determined mindset that they may not think to challenge.
So where does that leave me?
My child growing and rearing days are not sponsored by Gwyneth Paltrow. But I'm not suffering to a clinical degree. I wanted kids, after this uncomfortable process, I will have them and my family will be complete.
I daresay, this makes me like most women.
When I look in the mirror, I freeze in the immediate shock of seeing my abdominal protrusion before settling in to a close examination of all the small horrors that hide around each bend and curve. I am not in awe of my belly. I don't love my bump. It bugs me most of the time.
Selecting pants, shorts or underwear for the day is like having the great privilege of choosing between waterboarding, a day in the stocks or a good sturdy hog tie over an open fire. If someone saw me trying to put on my leggings, they'd call animal control to come tranquilize what appears to be a rabid wildebeest struggling to free itself from an oddly restrictive trash bag.
Typically, I celebrate my body's function. I love to be strong and mobile. Normally, it does not prevent me from doing what I love, or what simply must get done that day. I miss being able to hold my toddler and carry him with ease. I miss the close hugs with my husband. I can't wait for the fear of of burning my giant stomach while cooking dinner to subside. Last pregnancy I burned my 8-month-big stomach on a tray of chicken wings coming out of the oven. My immediate thought was that having a food that is such a symbol of male chauvinism assaulting my womanly figure must be what it feels like to work at Hooters. May the patriarchy burn.
I appreciate my health. It is something I consciously maintain and continually educate myself about. I am aware of the many risks and issues that can arise in pregnancy, and am thankful that I have not faced anything serious. But nothing about this is comfortable. Even sitting down, I feel like I swallowed a bowling ball. Why do we demand that moms love every pound gained and stretch mark acquired? Why do some force the notion that it's a "badge of honor" like how a messy bun is the "crown of motherhood." Let's not get carried away here. I'm all for finding creative ways to cope and get through the tough times, but I am not about to sing along with the sweet rhapsody of endless diapers and sleep deprivation while I gleefully wipe away the spit-up from my milk-stained bra.
I don't want to be glorified for my lack of self-care and inability to secure adequate support.
It's not something to pretend is great when it's not- especially when you don't have the help you need. It's something to prepare the best you can for, get through to the best of your ability and then eventually recover from with mandatory Mother's Day spa trips for the rest of your life.
I don't like pregnancy and many aspects of motherhood are rough, but also, in saying this, I am not saying that I'm not sinking into a depression or developing body dysmorphia either.
We need to remember that pregnant women are just regular women who happen to be just regular people. We love life, we struggle with life- both at the same time. We need to respect their own unique experiences when they decide to share them with us, and we need to not pester them with personal questions while we wait for a price check on frozen pizzas.
In so many areas of life, we need to allow people to be a mixed bag of emotions, qualities and beliefs. One of my favorite journaling workshops to teach is "More Ands Less Ors" because we practice this ruthlessly. Allowing contradictions to exist within ourselves and in others. Very few experiences and even fewer people are pure-bred anything. The middle ground is real life.
If you're not sure what the middle ground looks like, or how to allow contradictory states of emotion to exist side by side, here are some examples:
If a woman is annoyed with her giant pregnant body. Let her be annoyed. It doesn't mean she doesn't want to be a mom. When you get a hankering for ice cream, are you immediately and completely enamored with the idea of getting off the couch, into pants, into the car, through traffic and back again? Doubtful. The car ride sucks, but you're happy you have ice cream.
When a woman complains about how tired, nauseated or not herself she feels, don't immediately insist that "pregnancy is a miracle." Pregnancy is indeed the work of God, but timing is everything. Let her feel gross and make her feel like you hear her. When someone complains, they aren't necessarily fishing for someone to come along and change their mood or their mind, a lot of times they just want someone to hear them. If we don't listen to and acknowledge the small complaints, they'll either stop trying to share with us and withdraw completely, or they will create a crises that does get our attention.
If she's not sure if she likes her baby quite yet, give her a hot sec. A person just emerged from her body and it's a little trippy. Becoming a mom can take a minute.
When you see a pregnant woman out and about, talk to her like you would talk to others. Talk about the weather, work, whatever. Her body is not an invitation for your inquiries or even your praise.
I was out at a restaurant the other day and I had so many people tell me how cute I was. Harmless enough, and certainly not even close to some of the inappropriate comments I have received before. But not called for either. I felt like a spectacle. I had managed to get out of the house for some down time, and I just felt like everyone's eyes were on me. And I didn't feel cute. Sweating profusely while lifting up my leg with my hands to release the tension it was creating on my sagging gut is not when I feel cute. I feel cute when I'm having one of those mysteriously good hair days, my makeup went on effortlessly and I'm curled up in my fluffy pajamas with the cat on my lap.
Thank Heavens for women like Ali Wong, Amy Schumer, Catherine Reitman, Angela Garbes and others like them who portray pregnant life as it really is.
Moms need more acknowledgment and probably a few good policy changes at the federal level too. But they also need room to express the great mix of feelings that comes with the territory. Forcing them all into the narrative that pregnancy and motherhood is nothing but a divine miracle is basically demanding that they deny their unique reality and dissociate for our conversational convenience.
And if moms really are the angelic creatures tasked with carrying out God’s miraculous gift of bringing life into this world- who’s slapping cherubs now?
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