My husband, Devan, wants to know when he can stop lying to everyone he cares about. He’s talking about the baby, the fact that we’re having one (if all goes well) in early October. He’s been making excuses for my constant sickness, lying about why I cancelled a trip to Chicago, responding vaguely to invitations. He doesn’t like it. Neither of us does.
I want to hold onto my “pre-pregnancy self” as long as possible. I like that self. I like the way people speak to her, react to her. I don’t want things to change. I have enough friends with babies to know how this works. Once you let people know you’re pregnant, you’re entered into lots of conversations about your belly, your weight, your breasts and how you plan on using them, what medications you’ll take, and why you’re right or wrong about them. I don’t want to have these conversations. I like the kinds of conversations I already have.
Devan is very understanding. It’s a tough line to walk, in terms of what percentage of the vote we each get. Physically, this is happening to me. The chatter will largely be about my decisions, my body. But this is happening to Devan, too. It’s both of ours. I want him to feel like it’s both of ours. He’s kind enough to let me call the shots. When he asks when we can tell people, it’s a question, not a demand.
“Do we have to tell people?” I ask. But I already know the answer.
*
When I instruct people to keep the news off of Facebook they are very understanding. This is, after all, the world we live in now, a world of social media where information spreads at the speed of hundreds of kbits per second. Often they ask, “For how long?” and the tension begins when I say, “Um. Maybe forever?”
My friends and family are sweet and generous. More generous than I am, by far. They want to share their excitement, invite others into it. And they want me to want that, too. After a couple of rounds of back and forth, the conversation always comes to the same place, my debate opponents’ trump card: “You can’t keep this a secret forever.”
They’re right, of course, though I think of it more in terms of “privacy” than “secrecy.” But there is no such thing as a private pregnancy.
*
Part of this is about the wedding, the way I ceased to be “Aubrey” and became “The Bride” as soon as Devan and I shared the news of our engagement. It was like my previous self disappeared and all anyone wanted to know was what my dress looked like and what kind of flowers I would carry and what my new name would be.
At the same time, we were planning a cross-country move to a place we’d never even visited and I’d accepted a prestigious writing fellowship. But it was like none of that was happening. I felt my whole being had been eclipsed by the wedding. It seemed to be the only thing anyone wanted to talk to me about, the only thing about me that was interesting.
To be clear, these people did nothing wrong. They were excited. The problem wasn’t with them; it was with me. I didn’t want to talk about centerpieces and colors. I wanted to go on talking about books and movies, politics and food. I know that a marriage is a big deal, a big step. But the wedding was just supposed to be a fun party. It wasn’t supposed to be my defining characteristic for the better part of a year.
I can feel it happening again, the disappearing. Already excited friends and family have written over “Aubrey” with “Mother-to-Be.” I’ve got a book coming out this year and no one’s asked about it since I told them I was pregnant. Of course it’s silly for me to think I can dictate the topic of every conversation. And again, these people are nothing but generous and kind. Their priorities are different than mine, and I can respect that. But sometimes it hurts.
*
I told a coworker early on, at about nine weeks. He heard I was under the weather and is aware of my complicated medical history. He texted me in the evening, “Let me know if it turns serious.” I consider him a friend and didn’t want him to worry.
By thirteen weeks, he’s putting on the pressure. “When will you tell people?”
I tell him I’ve told a lot of people. But he means people at work. He wants to know when we can celebrate. I tell him I hadn’t planned on making any kind of big announcement.
“Do you want me to announce it?” he asks.
“No,” I tell him. “I’d prefer if you didn’t. People will know when they know,” I say. My belly is already big enough that I’m holding my jeans closed with a hairband.
“Why don’t you want to tell them?” he asks.
It’s a valid question. One I can spend hours answering, but we’re walking to a reading and we’re almost there. “I don’t know,” I say, weakly. “I’m not really in the habit of chatting about my reproductive choices with the people I work with.”
He laughs. “This is different,” he says.
He’s right, of course. It is different. But I have a hard time figuring out why. I like talking to my colleagues, but I’m a private person. I’m not interested in the awkward hugs, the questions about my waistline from the balding Chaucer scholars.
I tell him I’ll think about it.
“Think about it,” he says. “You can’t keep it a secret forever.”
*
Part of this is political. If I’d gotten pregnant last year or next year I might feel differently. I might be dying for my co-workers to throw me a shower, but as it is now I feel fiercely protective of any scrap of privacy I can hang onto.
The right is lobbying against my reproductive freedoms in all forms, at all levels, in every way they can. Some days it seems that every news article I read is an attack. I would be lying if I said it wasn’t affecting my self-worth. What’s wrong with me, I wonder, that I can’t be trusted with my own freedom?
The conversations are all around me, the ones about what I can and cannot do with my uterus, my ovaries, which of my basic health care needs should be paid for, whether this or that opinion or act or prescription medication makes me a slut. My congressmen are having these conversations, the news pundits, my president, my friends. When they happen, I act as though I am outraged, and I am, but much stronger than my outrage is my complete and utter humiliation.
I can’t believe that people are saying these things. That questions about my body, my choices, are even up for public commentary and public debate. I feel powerless, small. I want to tell everyone to stop, even the people that are on my side. I want to shout at them that this is none of their fucking business. It makes me angry. It makes me afraid.
*
Sometimes I envy Devan. It’s not just when I’m so sick I can barely breathe. Or when I have to sit still for yet another blood draw. Or when my breasts are so sore that removing my bra at night makes me yelp. It’s also because his impending fatherhood is completely invisible. He tells who he wants to know whenever we decide we’re ready to tell them. Unless he says something, the truth is undetectable. My days of this protection are dwindling fast, getting shorter with every pound.
But ironically, Devan loves to share. Maybe because he has the luxury of an option. If our roles could be reversed, he’d be willing, I think. I would be, too. He’d be better at this part than I am.
*
I’ve just moved to Colorado Springs when the “personhood” amendment goes on the ballot. It would, among other things, make abortions felonies, outlaw many common forms of birth control and allow miscarriages to be prosecuted as manslaughter. On voting day, I cry. I tell Devan I think I might be having a panic attack. I tell him that if it passes, we will have to move. That I will have to leave my fellowship. That I can’t live in a place that would do this, where the people think these things, where my autonomy means so little.
“We’ll go,” he says. “If it passes. We’ll go.”
It fails by a wide margin. The petition to get it on the ballot the following year is already being drafted before the final tally is announced.
*
Another part of it is that I’m worried about my career. Not the teaching part, I feel at least somewhat protected there, by the law, by having a supportive partner, by the flexibility of the academic life. I worry about my writing career. I worry about it obsessively, actually. I’ve worked really hard to get where I am and where I am is good. I feel heard, respected. Sometimes I even feel important. When everyone finds out, I wonder if the solicitations will flat-line, if I can still make lewd jokes with my friends on Twitter, if I will be taken less seriously.
I don’t know if these fears are grounded or if they are just in my head, but I think I’m finally ready to find out. I’m trying to see it as an adventure, rather than a handicap, but sometimes the fear gets the better of me.
*
I’m not looking forward to the part where everyone wants to talk to me about my pregnancy, my body, touch me, offer me advice and criticism. It’s not that I’m averse to attention. I’m not—I love attention. But I only want it for things that I have earned.
I have a habit of speaking and interpreting speech in a very literal way. It’s not a great trait for a writer, I suppose. I think this is why the standard response of “congratulations” is hitting my ear so strangely. This pregnancy has prompted more congratulatory notes and phone calls than anything I have ever accomplished, but I don’t feel like it’s something I earned. Getting pregnant (for me) was very easy. It was actually quite fun. There was no hard work involved at all. And yet I am congratulated warmly, as if I’ve been slaving away at this for years. It’s confusing. Maybe it shouldn’t be, but like I said, I tend to hear things as they’re spoken, not always as they’re meant.
What I really want is to do this pregnancy in private. It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it. I do, sometimes. But I want complete control over those conversations: who I talk to about it and when, what direction the dialogue takes. In our society, pregnant women are public property. Non-pregnant women are fast becoming public property, too. I’m not interested in being part of that. It’s making me want to wall myself off completely until I’m not pregnant anymore. Maybe even longer if politics keep moving the direction they are.
*
The baby will have my last name, which is different than my husband’s. People seem confused by this. I don’t mind their confusion. I actually kind of like it. It makes me feel like a pioneer. My name is important to me. My late grandfather could trace our family line back to the 1700s. Why wouldn’t I want to move that forward? How could I possibly let it go? This baby is mine. I want everyone to know.
Also confusing to people who don’t know me is my lack of wedding band. I wear it sometimes, when we’re out to dinner, when we go to someone else’s wedding, when I want to feel Devan’s presence even though he’s far away. But for the most part, I go without it. I don’t wear a lot of jewelry. It just never really stuck.
At my first doctor’s appointment, the student doctor asking me questions looks at my naked left hand, asks, “Was this planned?” I want to ask him if that’s medically relevant, but the power-imbalance of the doctor’s office robs me of my capability for snark. I answer him, but I can’t help thinking I have given him something I did not need to give away.
Because of these choices, I’m ready for the judgment. I know that a big belly and empty ring finger will raise a lot of eyebrows, especially when you look young, as I do. I know that our kid’s teacher will probably assume the kid isn’t biologically related to my husband, with his own last name too tied to his professional accomplishments to abandon. Sometimes it feels like everything will be a fight from this point forward, but I know that it will also be an honor, a privilege, an experience of sheer and near-constant joy.
*
It seems everyone was right. I can’t keep this a secret forever. And there are things I’m excited about, alongside my fear. I’m not naïve enough to think that nothing will change, but I think I can be brave enough to face those changes. I’m ready to grow, and to allow that growth to be visible. Even if it’s awkward. Even if it hurts.
If this baby is a girl, I am hopeful that things will be different when it’s her turn. That she will read this essay in thirty years and laugh and say, “Mom, you were so crazy.” Because she will feel so in control of her life, her choices, her body, that she won’t be able to imagine a time when any small modicum of control had to be flexed, hoarded, treasured.
She will be part of a generation of girls unassaulted by their society. They will walk around generous and uninjured. Or maybe that’s just the dream of this pregnant woman, because we all want better for our kids than we had ourselves.
93 responses
“I don’t want to have these conversations. I like the kinds of conversations I already have.” That is so true for me, and may be a major reason I don’t think I’m having kids (and I’m 39, so I’m getting surer.) It sounds great to have a kid in many ways, but I don’t want to be “a parent” instead of “a person.” Wish it didn’t feel like that’s the choice…
I have a suggestion for this author: Rather than catastrophize about what people might say and do, try being the pregnant woman/new mother YOU would want as a role model. Blow people away with how smart and talented you are while simultaneously being so very pregnant. So what if people touch your belly or ask about breastfeeding. They are interested! They are excited! They are hopeful! It’s a pretty miraculous thing to make a human being, and a sad world it would be if people stopped celebrating the coming of a new life. You can still be a writer, a teacher or whatever else you want to be, though believe me it ain’t gonna be easy from here on out. For the reality is that from now on, new mama-to-be, it’s not just about you. That’s the deepest and most precious truth about becoming a parent.
Perhaps it’s not about stopping the celebration of being pregnant but understanding that people celebrate things in different ways and not everyone is comfortable with what is seen as the “normal” way of celebrating. As someone who is very private I can completely understand this point of view and take my hat off to you for actually expressing it for others to consider. I am not nor have I been pregnant but as a woman in a long term relationship recently married I know I am constantly fielding the questions of when we are going to start a family. Whilst the questions my husband gets to answer is all about his work, I’m expected to be jumping on the baby train ASAP (I’m not getting any younger you know, apparently I’m 26 going on 40 here). No one is really interested in my work, in fact I would wager that 90% of our family and friends wouldn’t even know what I do every day. I know that as soon as we start a family that that is all people will think my life is going to be about and while I may feel differently about that when the time comes at the moment I find myself desperately clinging to any sense of individual I have left and protecting that with such ferocity so as not to lose sight of it ever.
“So what if people touch your belly…”
Well, specifically, that’s her uterus, a sexual organ. To use a not entirely ludicrous analogy, if some stranger walked up and touched my balls in public, I’d be pretty annoyed.
Also, for “new mamas-to-be” (and other-parent-to-be), it may be true that it’s not “just about you.” But I’m pretty sure it’s about mama, partner, and baby, not mama, partner, baby, and every uterus-grabber on the street.
I think that the version of your self that people will recognize will remain essentially unchanged for those people that know you best. However, as soon as you leave the immediate circle of people that know you well, the self that people will relate with will be your pregnant self. Birth and death are two touchstones in life that are fairly universal and are touchstones with which people can relate. Pregnancy is an easy and familiar topic, and most people assume a pregnant woman is happy to be pregnant and would welcome sunny commiseration.
Further, you seem to suggest that you are your same self. You’re not. You’re pregnant. A pregnancy is not like a tumor. A tumor has no potential for sentience and so your every decision in regard to a tumor affects only your own self. I won’t argue that you are carrying a person inside of you now, I will, however, say that you are at least carrying what may become a person. A consequence is that the closer that what you are carrying comes to a being that can survive without you, the less your decisions about your own self affect only your own self. The continuum of gestation is a fuzzy thing, but at the extremes, things are clearer. There is a stark difference between a few cells at the beginning of gestation than in the days before an expected delivery date. A woman’s decision to terminate the viability of the few cells for reasons unrelated to health is different than a woman’s decision to terminate the viability of a fully developed fetus for reasons unrelated to health. Whether you agree or not, our present cultural and legal frameworks give the state an interest in your body the closer you are to carrying an independent being. If you can’t accept that there is some rational basis for this balance, then I would be interested in hearing why you disagree.
You live in a culture that celebrates birth and marriage, and the only reason you would lose your self to these events is if you are unable to separate your identity from people wanting to share their joy with you about these events.
Congratulations on your writing fellowship.
I gotta say Melinda, it’s not “so what” if people touch her belly. That’s her body. Her body isn’t public property. I personally do not like being touched by strangers or casual friends at all and someone touching my belly would compel me to break a wrist.I agree that a new life is exciting but we do not have the right to impose our excitement on people without knowing, explicitly, that they welcome that excitement. Pregnancy is a personal, private matter and the world being able to see a swollen, pregnant belly shouldn’t change that.
This middle-class heteronormative narrative sounds pretty privileged actually.
Pregnancy, and even more extremely, the birth of a child, utterly break down the autonomy of self and the sense of one’s OWN body. Even casting politics aside, you lose control of your body, you lose rights to your body (I mean, I couldn’t write something nearly as smart as this essay when I had a fetus leaching my brain power!), you become dependent. To follow up on what Melinda writes above, after the process breaks you, it makes you powerful in new and different ways, and it overhauls your perspective. If it’s any use, I got a lot out of Alicia Ostriker’s collection The Mother/Child Papers, in terms of redefining my feminism when I became a mother. There will be gaps in the writing, but don’t worry; it comes back.
I appreciate the careful, thoughtful, deliberate attention to the way a woman’s body is culturally appropriated during pregnancy in this essay, and there is no offense intended here, but to behave as if this is the only phase of a woman’s life in which her body is surveyed, invaded, dominated, objectified and treated as cultural capital is foolish and shortsighted. A woman has always and ever been merely the sum of her parts–for most of history, literal CHATTEL– and there is a MASSIVE body of critical literature that addresses this very serious problem. The female body in all its iterations is and always has been treated this way–pregnancy is no one particularly victimizing phase of womanhood. This essay gets under my skin because it does not acknowledge this as an experience every member of a gender experiences every single day in all internal and external aspects of human experience, it relegates it to the experience of pregnancy.
Wow, thank you Aubrey. When I was pregnant, I felt like my body was growing into a billboard of myself–announcing my “condition” and reminding me that I was a topic of public debate–especially during an election year.
The idea that a desire for respect and privacy during pregnancy–or any other time, for women, for that matter–would be considered a “privilege,” Toni, is exactly the problem with the entire political debate around women’s bodies. It’s not a middle-class problem; it’s a problem all women face to varying degrees. The fact that Aubrey had a choice in the matter, had some planning, a compassionate spouse, a job, and evidently reliable medical care, also sadly shouldn’t be considered “privilege” and doesn’t make her point less salient. The problem is worse for women without these choices and support. These are things women deserve, plain and simple.
Do not worry about the last name difference for another minute. In my experience, no one questions the difference in our names or even cares. It is unusual but not unheard of. More and more parents have different last names. It is not unheard of, in this age of divorce and common law and remarriage, for a child to have a different last name from both custodial parents.
As far as the possibility of losing yourself to becoming a parent, I would say that I have most deeply become myself as a parent. It is as a parent that I came face to face with my strengths, weaknesses and needs. I learned the ways I am screwed up and some strategies for making myself better. I confronted my shortcomings. I gained confidence in my own ability. I found the courage to jump to a career I love. I became a better partner and a better (and more selective) friend.
It is scary because it is so unknown. But man, is it ever worth it.
I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like to be a woman, usually the more I find out, I end up thinking something like, “Whew, I’m glad I don’t have to go through that.” I can’t imagine how I’d feel if the government started talking publicly about the rights of testicles or penises but I could see how it would make me feel self-conscious and like a part of my privacy was being invaded. I’m glad to read something written so honestly, and certainly gives perspective. Seems more than ever our privacy is under attack, everyone has to know everything and we have to constantly update privacy settings etc but we should be able to share ourselves in whatever way that we choose to
A couple of these comments kind of stun me. Anatomy of a Dress, yes what you say is true but that is not the point. Aubrey is writing about one experience. She’s not negating that women’s bodies are always public property. She’s speaking to the particular ways a woman’s body becomes public property when she is pregnant. The only one relegating is you. Because I know and have talked to Aubrey about such matters I can assure you she is crystal clear on the ways in which the female body is objectified historically and at all times throughout a woman’s life.
Toni, frankly, what does your statement even mean?
“Non-pregnant women are fast becoming public property, too.”
and
“The baby will have my last name, which is different than my husband’s. People seem confused by this. I don’t mind their confusion. I actually kind of like it. It makes me feel like a pioneer.”
These and several other cues indicate that this essay seems to exist outside a larger and more urgent discussion about women’s bodies and so yes, it does relegate the topic specifically and exclusively to pregnancy. Not me, the essay. OF COURSE the author is entitled to her own experience, as I am to mine.
Fantastic essay, Aubrey. Pregnancy (and ultimately parenthood) is something I hope to experience someday. Although I am a ridiculously touchy-feely person, I think even I could become more protective of my body as it transformed in that way. Stranger and acquaintances excitement be damned. I hope the people you encounter as your body changes, as your life changes, are more respectful and less critical of your choices than some of these commentors who seem to have completely missed the point of this gorgeous work. Good luck to you in this adventure.
Um, Dave, in case you missed that one in 6th grade biology class, a woman’s belly and her uterus are not one and the same. I do not equate a person touching my pregnant belly with touching my lady parts. It’s a belly, for goodness sake! When I was pregnant I welcomed my lady friends to touch it, and some of my men friends, too. I felt okay doing that. Not everyone would. It would be pretty hard for someone to randomly touch my uterus. It’s kind of out of reach, if you know what I mean.
Don’t get me wrong, I am a card-carrying feminist, but often it seems to me that Americans are so uptight about their bodies that any perceived breach of privacy sends them into convulsions. Of course everyone has their own comfort level with touching, and I am not suggesting that a pregnant woman should surrender to strangers to to touch and question at will. Of course it’s her body and her call.
But I wonder what kind of solipsistic culture we’ve created where we would hide our pregnancies for as long as possible because we “don’t want things to change.” And while I agree that we obviously have a long way to go to be fully respected as women(case-in-point, the need for Republican white male reeducation), AnatomyofaDress’s claims that a women is “literal chattel” and “merely the sum of her body parts” sounds like rhetoric from a Women’s Studies class and doesn’t ring true for me. Maybe it’s partly the region I live in, but I feel pretty blessed to be a woman right now. I do what I want. So do my three grown-up daughters.
One way to change things for the better is to “be the change.” My suggestions to Aubrey were meant as a way to find strength, identity and joy in her choice to be a mama.
I accompanied a pregnant friend frequently in public a few years ago. Complete strangers–people neither of us had ever seen before–approached and laid their hands on her, sometimes reaching inside her coat to do so, on a near-daily basis. If this happened to any of us–anyone commenting in this thread–in any other circumstance than pregnancy, it would be called groping and would be met with revulsion.
Anybody who thinks this desire for privacy is somehow unfounded or theoretical hasn’t been paying attention to the authority people seem to think they hold over the bodies and experiences of total strangers when those strangers are visibly pregnant. When you’re pregnant, people think they are entitled to touch you, to ask you personal questions, to give you unsolicited advice. They are not. Bearing a child is not a public activity in service of some greater good.
I am also pregnant for the first time, and am a writer. In the early months of my pregnancy, I experienced very similar feelings to those described by Ms. Hirsch. I feared that my friends and family would stop talking to me about interesting things and only ask me about pregnancy-related topics. We therefore didn’t tell anyone about the pregnancy (even family!) until I was already 4 1/2 months pregnant, at which point it was either time to tell them that I was pregnant, or to find an explanation for my rapidly growing beer belly. Of course, everyone is excited and wants to talk with me/us about the baby, and sometimes it is great to be able to share this experience with others. But my husband and I have also made it clear to everyone that we are interested in other things too, and I am happy to say that after the initial questions of how I’m feeling and how the baby is developing and “wow, how much bigger you are than last time we met,” which invariably start off every conversation, I have been able to continue having meaningful discussions about a variety of other topics too, and feel that most people take me seriously as a competent working individual. You just have to be the person you want to be, and don’t let the pregnancy industry dominate your identity (as in any other phase of a woman’s life, pregnant or not).
The only thing that still makes me uncomfortable is the reaction of strangers sometimes, which I cannot really do anything about. I also currently live in Germany, which has a noun for a pregnant woman “Schwangere”, so that now instead of a “woman” or “lady”, people on the street refer to me as “die Schwangere” (literally “that pregnant (woman)”), which always gets to me a bit, as I feel it is only one aspect of my identity (and a temporary one, at that). But there will always be less thoughtful or less experienced people, who can’t understand why this doesn’t feel nice, so I try not to let it get to me. And I have found that, among colleagues, family and friends, the respect that I demand for myself as an individual is still intact and poses no danger to the lovely experience of being pregnant.
Thanks, Aubrey. While not pregnant myself, so much of what you’ve said here rings true.
Some of these comments prove that Hirsch’s fear is completely justified.
As a reader I have enjoyed Hirsch’s writing before, and found this, again, to be wonderfully written. Not sure how much I can offer on the politics of this topic since I’m a dude who has never had to struggle with the body and agency and the blurred lines of community. Sounds like Hirsch is handing this gracefully. I do feel compelled to share a few notes, if I may: my wife was pregnant three times, from which we have two beautiful daughters. All three of her pregnancies involved extended bed rest and stays in perinatal high risk units. She also endured an abdominal cerclage and a dehisced surgical incision, which had to be scrubbed by a nurse twice a day. My wife laid upside down, literally, in a bed for weeks. She wolfed down six-seven meals a day, despite not moving or ever being hungry, in attempt to put weight on our pre-term babies, one of which we were told would be born with a brain-bleed(she’s now twelve and perfectly healthy). I could get more gruesome here, but blahblahblah. Not looking for sympathy, but rather struggling with the possibility that Hirsch, rather than vibing on this special and magical time, is caught in the crosshairs of this larger, cultural struggle. What I do know is this: my wife, who is fierce, super smart, and has never been defined by being a mother, has said many times how much she loved the incredible power and gravity of being pregnant. I wish Hirsch the same experience now.
Melinda, when you were pregnant and welcomed your lady (and some of your men) friends to touch your belly, did they do so without asking? Did they ask? Did you offer? All of this matters to this discussion because while you may have been comfortable with allowing people you know touching your belly while pregnant, you obviously weren’t comfortable with everyone doing it. So you have limits. You wish to control who gets to touch you and how.
And you know what? That’s exactly what you should be able to control. And no one should chastise you for that choice. But just because you were comfortable with that level of intimacy doesn’t mean that your attitude should be the default. You seem to acknowledge that a bit when you say “Of course it’s her body and her call,” but then why have all the other dismissiveness surrounding that bit of text? “It’s her body and her call” ought to be the beginning and the end of this discussion.
But it’s not, and that’s why Hirsch felt the need to write this piece, because women’s bodies are (again) being claimed by a sizable chunk of American society which has decided that women don’t get to make calls about their own bodies, pregnant women in particular.
God, I’d forgotten about all the bump touching. I love to touch pregnant friends’ bellies, but I always ask first. It’s such a joy to meet their child like that, with a touch. And yes, we’re all different in our reactions. I think there’s a very valid and understandable instinct to protect oneself and ones baby while pregnant.
I was quite content for people I knew to touch my baby bump. But some creep builder who was fixing our boiler actually leaned in and kissed me as he left the house, because apparently it’s lucky to kiss a pregnant woman, and yes, I felt violated – too stunned and intimidated to say anything. If there’s a next time, however, I will be taking no fucking prisoners.
Best wishes to you, Aubrey. Bon courage.
I was in my third year of a PhD program when I got pregnant (planned, and planned timing). I was sicker than anything that semester, which was also my last semester of coursework, the semester I planned to do my comprehensive exams, and the semester I’d finalize my dissertation prospectus.
Family knew and close friends. But I told no one at school. I changed Facebook so no one could post on my wall (thus eliminating any problems with colleagues finding out). Ironically, my field is women’s history – but I wasn’t sure what my advisor would think at that point because I was only just beginning (in so many ways).
At 19 weeks, there were complications and I lost the baby. I took exams 5 weeks later, only telling 2 professors when I couldn’t get around it (did not tell my advisor).
Four years later, most people in my professional life still don’t know that I was ever pregnant. I don’t have any other kids. I got the PhD a year ago and moved on to a high school teaching job that I love.
But I’d still do it the same way, for many reasons. So you’re not alone.
Congratulations on your book, and good luck with your fellowship.
To Melinda –
“Um, Dave, in case you missed that one in 6th grade biology class, a woman’s belly and her uterus are not one and the same. I do not equate a person touching my pregnant belly with touching my lady parts. It’s a belly, for goodness sake! When I was pregnant I welcomed my lady friends to touch it, and some of my men friends, too. I felt okay doing that. Not everyone would. It would be pretty hard for someone to randomly touch my uterus. It’s kind of out of reach, if you know what I mean.”
Not really. I suppose it’s a matter of how much emphasis you want to give to a few layers of skin (not even muscle — the abdominal muscles often separate during pregnancy). To go back to my example, if you attempted to touch my balls in public, you wouldn’t ACTUALLY be touching testicles, but you’d be touching an outer layer of clothing concealing an inner layer of clothing concealing skin concealing actual sexual organ. But it would still be thoroughly invasive and inappropriate!
Since you’ve had three kids, I imagine you’re familiar with diagrams like this, but to illustrate for anyone who has any illusions about just where the uterus expands during pregnancy: http://www.childbirthconnection.org/article.asp?ck=10243
My currently pregnant wife has had to point out to several well-meaning, but ill-educated folks (all women) that the ‘baby bump’ is essentially her expanded uterus, not the uterus hidden behind her digestive organs, not the uterus hidden behind well-defined muscle, and not some sort of magical reconfiguration of the uterus that makes it a not-uterus for the term of pregnancy. This was usually enough to make them less interested in touching her.
I want to show this article to every young woman who makes her sonogram her Facebook profile photo.
Brian, as I clarified in my last comment, I don’t think a pregnant woman should have to surrender to unwanted touching from anyone. When I suggested earlier that the writer might decide not to care about people touching her belly, I meant that it might be possible for her share her pregnancy with her close people while still keeping her autonomy. I was inspired to say this because of the level of fear and aversion the writer conveyed about her pregnancy; the negative reactions she anticipated to her occasional lack of wedding ring or the keeping her own name; her concerns over whether she will be taken seriously as a writer, etc. The baby seemed almost like an afterthought, though I also know that for first-time mamas, babies can be kind of abstract until they start kicking or show up for real down the road.
In my opinion, one of the consequences of our feminist gains is a suspicion of the role of motherhood and the domestic life, as if by embracing such a role we must completely give up our autonomous selves. True, a great deal of surrender is required to be a good mother, but it doesn’t mean that we must relinquish the multifaceted beings that we are.
I say all this as a woman who has refused to allow society to take away her right to be in her body as she chooses. I have had relationships and sex with whomever I chose, have three children with three different men (married one of them), gave my children my surname and raised and educated them how I saw fit. I have lived my life on my own terms, though not, of course, without obstacles, disapproval, mistakes and mishaps along the way. Women will always be subject to gender discrimination. It’s a harsh reality, but rather than become victims who feel forced to hide out while worrying about how others might react towards us, we can project what we want society to perceive in us, and entice it to change for the benefit of everyone. The female role models I’ve admired and learned from over the years do this, and I try to do it myself when I can. It’s not easy, but it is liberating.
Dave, I would not be comfortable if a man or woman grabbed my crotch or breasts (without my permission), and while I concur that the uterus is separated by mere skin, fat and muscle from the world outside, you still can’t grab my uterus, no matter how hard you try. The skin on your testicle is part of your testicle, while the skin, muscle and fat between my uterus and you is not part of my uterus. I (and many other women) don’t equate a person touching our pregnant bellies as a sexually inappropriate act when we choose to allow it. The issue really is that I am comfortable with my body being touched by my close people in a way that your wife and some women are not. There isn’t anything wrong with either way.
Thank you, Aubrey, for writing such a thoughtful and honest and let’s face it, not-so-typical piece on pregnancy and what it means to lose some of one’s own personhood.
I’m pretty horrified by a lot of these comments, but perhaps not surprised? The tribe of “I’m pregnant and that’s all I want to talk about and now I’m a Mommy and THAT’S all I want to talk about” is strong in this country, and people (Melinda) are just showing their true colors. They feel threatened, perhaps, by hearing “one of their own” who doesn’t share their exact feelings on the subject.
I’ve never wanted to procreate. I’m 38 now, and am lucky to have a partner who also does not want to procreate. So many of my reasons are related to what Aubrey speaks of, but even more of my reasons are that I don’t ever want to be one of those “I’m not a person anymore, I’m a Mommy, and if you’re not a Mommy you’ll never get it” people. It’s terrifying to me.
Aubrey, I can identify with every single thing you say, and I’m also rather stunned at some of the preceding comments, and I am NOT going to lecture you or tell you how you should be or feel or what you should do (you’ll get plenty more of that once the baby comes and you’re in the process of raising a child), but I want to tell you that this remark, from your essay, is key: “I don’t mind their confusion. I actually kind of like it.” Embrace fucking with people’s heads. Do things the way you want to, the way you think is best, the way that is truest to your own ideals, the way you’re most comfortable with.
The whole process of pregnancy, childbirth, caring for an infant, raising a child, etc., is incredibly physically demanding and an ENORMOUS head trip and people are going to give you all their advice and opinions and judgments and, yeah, you’ll listen and nod and take all of it in and then, in the end, you’ll do what you’re comfortable with. Your sense that it’s none of their fucking business is absolutely right.
I didn’t want to tell people I was pregnant, either. The thought of making any kind of announcement embarrassed the hell out of me. So I didn’t. I told my family and my closest friends. I figured other people, jeezuz, let ’em GUESS. Eventually word gets around. Fine. In my eighth month, a coworker said to me, You don’t look like a pregnant lady. (My belly never got super-huge until the last month, plus I wore really blouse-y clothes.) So, what, she was telling me that I didn’t look pregnant ENOUGH?! Wow. How do people think this shit up? The stuff people say to you will blow your mind. God. It’s all still blowing my mind. Every day, my mind is blown. (To help stay sane, find other moms who think like you do–they are out there. Everyone else can just fuck the hell off.)
I’m not sure how this turned into comments about testicle skin (though, it must be said, “belly” is not a term you learned in 6th grade biology class, because it isn’t a damn organ, or anything at all, actually — it’s not a scientific part of your anatomy any more than “tummy”).
BUT, this essay is incredible. Thank you for writing it.
Holy cats. I am pregnant right now, too. And I love this essay to bits.
P.S. My coworkers said at staff meeting one Monday, “You’re gonna have to get used to people coming up and touching your belly.” My reply — “I’m gonna have to smack some hands, then.” Six months and showing, and nobody’s tried so far…
I really enjoyed this essay and I thought it was beautifully written and beautifully honest. I am curious about one thing, though, and this is not meant as a criticism at all, but just an actual question that I’d like to ask the author, because it’s got me thinking: What went into your decision to publish this essay? On the surface level, publishing it online seems to be in direct conflict with your feelings on the matter–you don’t want to share your pregnancy with co-workers, let alone the thousands (or millions? Does the Rumpus have millions of readers? It should) of strangers who are reading it now. I’m just curious if it’s different to write about it, then to talk about it.
Dear Ms. Hirsch, hang in there. Bearing (and birthing)a child is indeed a momentous decision considering our current culture wars here in the land of the free and home of the brave, esp. with your unforseen health problems. I like the way you have turned the conversation surrounding your pregnancy to encompass your social concerns and away from the tedious advice discourses that most women have to bear. On a humorous note, if I may…a new curse word based on a side topic that I found taking up space in the comments section…Mothertoucher.
Hi Aubrey ^___^ I have and will always admire your honesty. I’m glad I got the chance to read this before hearing about your pregnancy via word-of-mouth. I’m so proud of you for speaking out and being open and vulnerable with us. If I were there I would give you a hug (with your permission!)
I look up to you a lot, and not just because you’re a writer (and I’ve ordered your book and I’m going to get on a plane and visit just so you’ll sign it! Prepare to be stalked. Eventually.) Anyway, you’ll never stop being a writer. And you’re going to be an awesome mother, because you’re just an awesome person, and you probably don’t realize how much people already admire you.
As far as staying a writer–you can’t lose that. Just be patient. One of my favorite writers once said that all it takes to write a novel is to write 300 words a day for a year. Even if you spend a lot of time doing mothering things, you will be able to carve out enough time and space to be a writer. It won’t even have to be something you force; being a writer is a part of your identity. It’s in your blood. I don’t think you’ll be able to stop.
@May: As you can (hopefully) tell from the piece, one of my big concerns is about maintaining a feeling of control over the situation. Publishing this essay is my way of controlling the flow of information. I saw it as an opportunity to package my announcement together with some of my concerns. I liked that. There’s also less at stake for me in sharing with strangers, in many ways. As a general rule, I try to write like no one’s reading. It keeps me honest.
I’ve appreciated reading everyone’s comments here, as well as the many thoughtful notes I’ve received privately.
Next time someone asks why I don’t want to get married, I will point them to this.
Thank you, Aubrey, you have articulated many of the things I have been feeling but have been unable to articulate. At 36 weeks pregnant, I am tired of social conventions requiring me to respond to the abundance of unwanted questions and comments about my body. The norms, “when are you due?” and “is it a boy or girl?” are pretty mild compared to “you are so big!” and “are you carrying twins?” If I were an unmarked body in an elevator or at a grocery store, no one would speak to me at all. And prior to all of that, I also hated making the announcement because although I love being a mother (this is my second child), I do not consider “mother” my dominant identity and begrudge others making it so. I appreciate that I am not alone in my discomfort and frustration.
OMG I felt the exact same way when pregnant with my first and so far only child almost 2 yrs ago! Neither my husband nor I have good relationships with our families, so we decided not to tell them for a long time (like over 20 wks). I hated when it became obvious- I remember being in the local Trader Joe’s which we frequent often and having a worker congratulate us. I was horrified! I was wearing pre-pregnancy clothes- DARK SLIMMING pre-pregnancy clothes that were layered and he could still tell! It felt like such a violation of privacy when the poor guy was just trying to be friendly. My dismay led into an awkward conversation about how the pregnancy wasn’t exactly planned lol. I think he learned his lesson. (On a side note, my first year of college I worked at the maternity shop in the mall and was always extremely careful never to assume someone was pregnant unless absolutely bursting because of course when I did assume it would turn out the customer was there buying for her sister or some other such embarrassing faux pas on my part.) Despite it being my first, I knew I wanted an unmedicated home birth with a midwife, so I also had to contend with the naysayers who wanted to challenge my rather well researched and thought out decision. The birth went fine though and I think those few months of privacy helped my resolve to stand up for myself and also even gave me wonderful “don’t touch me” vibes, so I never had to deal with strangers’ groping me. I would have slapped them though! I married young (20 yo while in college) but didn’t have a baby for a few yrs at 23yo, but was similarly concerned when my fingers were to swollen to wear my rings. My case was especially ironic, b/c we were told constantly before our wedding that we were too young to get married but immediately afterwards, ppl- strangers even- started hounding us about why we didn’t have kids yet. Now that we finally have one, they want to know why we don’t have more- UGH! You just got to learn to say “screw it” to everyone’s expectations.
I enjoyed the attention while pregnant. I tried to become pregnant after 4 years of marriage. I checked out books from the library and learned all about it (pre-internet days). My body immediately changed – horrible acne, nausea, exhausted, etc.
To me, choosing to become pregnant was like choosing to climb Mt. Everest. It was a huge, physically demanding undertaking. Why wouldn’t I want to talk about something that affected every single second of my life for 9 months? Why wouldn’t others want to talk about this adventure with me?
I’ve read enough blogs that I try to be really, really circumspect with bringing up the pregnancy of others. There are walls between me and others as I try to not offend them by asking them any questions that might be too personal, or making any comments that might be misconstrued as rude.
It’s lonely to live with so many walls.
Aubrey sounds like she has many friends. My life is much, much smaller.
I love this. Babydaddy and I are not married. We’d met at work, but he had moved on. I’d JUST broken off a relationship wrought with fertility treatments and all the psychological crap of the babychase. I didn’t tell until I had to, and I was old (39) so people were shocked! And in the beginning I didn’t tell who the daaddy was. It physically pained them to not come out and ask! Ha ha. The kids’ last names are hyphenated. Kid 1 was 16 weeks early and turned work and home lives upside down. Kid 2 (at age 41) was 18 weeks early, didn’t make it. Kid 3 (at age 42) was full term and by then the entire library where I work was on edge every time they saw me. Do it. Push them. Keep your life. Every individual difference between you and them, between you and me, is a small mark, an option — this in a moment when hegemony is being pushed toward totalitarianism. Be in control, even after you tell them, if you still want to. I’ve also done all the wrong things, overly excited at other women’s healthy pregnancies, esp grey haired mamas. And I’ve pushed the boundaries as far as I could, too. I had three international researchers for the day yesterday. I did not mention my children, so we only talked of cultural history, global division of labor, politics of collection. Every decision can mark out options for someone else, some young woman that you may not notice watching. I adore this piece. Carry on. xx a
cat’s out of the bag now.
I haven’t read all of the comments, but I’ve read enough. She doesn’t want anyone to tell her how to live, or how to change her perspective, or how to “deal” with her choices. Many of the comments are perfect examples of what she is trying to avoid. She doesn’t need anyone’s input. She is living true to herself. I just want to yell, “Leave her alone already!”
To Aubrey – Thank you.
This is exactly how I felt during my pregnancies, especially my first. It’s so weird and frankly unpleasant to be perceived strictly in your biological role when you are pregnant. It made me want to scream. Everyone feels free to comment on your condition, to touch your belly (which I hated) and to think of you only in terms of your pregnancy. I considered making a label to hang over my growing belly saying: Keep Your Hands Off! But of course, I didn’t because I am a cheerful person and didn’t want to present myself as a scowly bad tempered bitch (which is exactly how I felt btw). I can understand it would be especially hard right now with the added hostility towards women making their own reproductive choices. Aubrey, you have my complete heartfelt sympathy.
its completely understandable, this need to hold your privacy to yourself and not have the whole horde of well wishers/world descend on you with wishes/talk about pregnancy/child etc. and while i completely get the many fears, aubrey, you also have to concede there is some truth to what toni here says, that this is a priveliged position really — not just white, heterosexual, married privilege, but one of other kinds too, to my mind, deeper ones — of being a ‘successful’ writer, getting fellowships and books out, and being at a slightly better place in the whole writing thing space than most people who want to do it are– for whatever reasons; and the other one of getting pregnant easily as well. by your own admission, you didnt have to struggle for it and dont understand why people would want to congratulate you. I dont have to tell you that there are scores of struggles in all/both those things that is the dominant experience for nearly all women who are or think of themselves as writers. to somehow not acknowledge what’s positive here, of these privileges, and to only , almost rile against what bothers you about this public pregnancy bit is myopic, a bit of a rant in places. and while I do understand why you cringe from the congratulations, I do also wonder what else others can do, when they learn (esp from you) that you are pregnant — they feel obliged themselves to wish you etc, out of politeness and as expected social codes. to do any lesser would be for them to be possibly seen as cold/uncaring/mean by yourself, to their minds.
And roxanne, to bring in some personal relationship with the author ascribing a greater moral position to them that readers here wont know from the post alone, isn’t quite cool.
Plus know you know, it Is a delightful thing to happen. so ofcourse others would be happy for you, genuinely.
Shruti, the thing is that not everyone views pregnancy in the same way. It’s delightful for you but that is not necessarily the case for other women. It’s not fair to make that assumption. Pregnancy is personal and women should, if they so choose, be allowed to see it as such. There’s no way other people can predict how women feel about their pregnancy but we might all just consider the possibility that a woman might not have the same outlook on pregnancy and how her body is approached as the general public. In terms of your other comment, I’m not assigning a greater moral position to anyone. I simply know Aubrey is very well aware of how the female body has been treated as public property throughout history and I wanted to point that out. I think we toss out accusations of privilege too casually. Everyone has privilege and I don’t see the author here denying her privilege. Everyone struggles for something–you, me, the author of this essay, and the people in the world around us. Those struggles shouldn’t preclude writers from speaking from their own experiences.
Shruti,
I am happy to respond to this part of your wonderings: “but [a privileged position] of other kinds too, to my mind, deeper ones — of being a ‘successful’ writer, getting fellowships and books out, and being at a slightly better place in the whole writing thing space than most people who want to do it are– for whatever reasons.”
I can explain the reason behind that. I work really hard at my craft. My place in the writing world, I’m happy to say, IS something that I have earned. I don’t consider it a “privilege” in the same way being white or becoming pregnant easily is a privilege. I’m not ashamed to say that I feel I deserve whatever amount of “success” I have achieved. I went out that got that myself.
On a broader note, though, I think we need to be careful about accusing anyone who writes about their life of not having a big enough problem to warrant it. I’m sure none of us want to see the literary scene turned into a race to the bottom, a competition over who’s suffering the most. I know I don’t. I’m interested in hearing thoughts and reading great writing from all kinds of writers, not just those that pass some kind of “suffering” test.
Some of the comments here make me very sad.
It’s not that I think the sentiments are insincere, or that I believe they’re untrue. I just don’t think they apply to everyone, and sometimes they just don’t help.
Some people discover their “true self†after becoming a parent, but others lose their true self forever. Some people find pregnancy and having a child absolutely delightful, but others wish they had waited or wish they had never had a child at all. Some people find they can do it all—-being a scholar, teacher, writer, partner, and parent, and others find they can’t fulfill one or more of their roles after having a child. Worst than that, some of us find we can’t fulfill any of our identities very well.
Before I had my son, I always imagined myself having two children. But now that he’s here, I wish I had waited. More than that, I’m fairly sure I won’t have another.
I know there are lots of women that can do it all. But I’m not one of them. Constantly, I feel as if have to choose to between being either a good academic or a good mother. Because I find myself incapable of choosing, I’m barely mediocre as a mother and as a scholar and I realize I’m in jeopardy of failing at both.
Good luck to you, Aubrey, and thank you so much for sharing this.
I feel the same way about a lot of what you said. My boyfriend has told everyone over his Facebook and he wants to know when I will be posting pictures of my belly on my Facebook. I really want to ask, why should I? I have enough problems with self-conciousness without having pictures of my stomach all over my Facebook. At the same time, I feel like maybe people will start to think I am ashamed of being pregnant. Which I am not. I just don’t like being defined because of it. I like being known as the hard working student. Now any one I tell asks if I am still going to finish college. Which frustrates me because it really is my choice. Everyone is telling me I HAVE to finish college. Of course I plan on finishing but I do not appreciate people telling me what I have to do. It is still my life.
Sorry for this being so long. It’s very hard to talk to people about this kind of topic. Thank you for sharing this. I don’t feel so alone. Best of luck.
I have to agree with the commenter who said that this writer comes off as deeply myopic. I am amazed at her statements about wanting to give the baby her name because her name is so important to her and deserves to be passed on. A valid sentiment, but one your husband is equally entitled to (or is he less entitled, in your view?). Why do you not mention how you resolved this issue with him? Later, you imply that he would have abandoned his name if he weren’t so professionally accomplished. It seems to me that you are suggesting that your name is important in and of itself and should never be abandoned, but his is only important because of professional accomplishments.
About the question from your doctor about whether your pregnancy was planned: the question may not exactly be medically relevant, but it could be extremely relevant for women (especially single women) who did not plan their pregnancy and are terrified and in need of social services. This question is probably the doctor’s way of opening a conversation about whether the woman has all the support and services she needs– and that is completely relevant to holistic healthcare. The concern is probably very welcomed by many less privileged women.
Thank you for sharing a great essay.
Refreshing and engaging from the get go! Well done, thanks!
Are there any unprestigious writing fellowships out there?
What I want to say to the writer of this essay is, relax! You’ve already spun the roulette wheel of life (yours, and another’s) by getting pregnant in the first place. There are now actually very few things you need to worry about. One is, having a healthy pregnancy. Two is, having a healthy baby. Everything else can all be taken with a pinch (or two) of salt. What’s wrong with getting attention for something you haven’t earned – like having a child? Which of course is not something anyone can ever earn. Even if it turns out to be a prestigious child, at that 🙂
At the start of my first pregnancy, I would have totally identified with Aubrey’s essay. Then I became a medical nightmare with ultrasounds predicting a terrible outcome and an early c-section to figure out what was the matter with the baby. I would have loved to have been given normal doting attention on during my pregnancy but everyone became very very scared to talk to me…I became invisible in my predicament. My daughter died 2 hours after her birth by c-section. Since then I have experienced every possible kind of birth (numerous miscarriages, two babies, one by c-section one by VBAC) and it was enough to turn me into a breastfeeding warrior. I totally identified with the goddess statue that illustrates Aubrey’s essay……woman as pregnant, breastfeeding goddess….as evolution designed her. As one could imagine…what other people thought became the farthest thing on my mind and I did have to hide pregnancies due to my own insecurity about the outcome.
Aubrey I hope you are blessed with a healthy pregnancy, a beautiful baby and a lovely postpartum adventure as you create your family!!!!
Coming late to the party, but frequent rudeness to pregnant people has bugged me for a long time.
The only thing that I know of that’s similarly rude/annoying and similarly widespread are the rudenesses that trans people experience: way-too-personal questions about what’s under their clothing and what their plans are for their transitions. Annoying for the exact same reasons. Let’s talk about ANYTHING else, unless THE PERSON wants to bring it up…
I do know why Devan wants to tell people. The fathers’ role in this is already too invisible…
Andrea, I’m saddened by the way you became “invisible” in your sorrow. Exact same problem just reversed. And glad you became a warrior!
I very much liked this essay, and I identified with the fear of “disappearing.” I’ve never been pregnant, but I’ve been in relationships where I’ve felt overshadowed by my relationship status (primarily back in high school, when I knew more conventional people). Now, fortunately, I don’t have to spend much time with the kind of people who don’t know me well and would assume that my end goal in life is to be a wife and mother. As a private person, we don’t tend to broadcast our accomplishments, opinions, or goals (or even necessarily see our accomplishments as accomplishments, I think), and so people will only go on what is most immediately visible, mostly for the sake of conversation. It totally sucks.
Excellent post. I (think) I want a child someday, but even so, the potential for public intrusion into my uterus makes me very uncomfortable.
Regarding the name issue, here in Quebec (Canada), women are not permitted to take their husbands’ name upon marriage. (I guess they could if they really wanted, but they would have to go through the whole legal process to change the name, which could be lengthy and costly) This means that it is the norm for a mother or father to have a different last name than her or his children (who may take either name, or a hyphenated version). I’m willing to bet that by the time your baby is in school, most people won’t bat an eyelid. Best of luck!
Once a writer, always a writer. I wish you much luck with your book.
As others have said, one of the reasons I haven’t had a child is I like my life now. I hated pre-wedding so much that I moved mine up by a YEAR to avoid much of what you’re talking about, but it was still all anyone wanted to hear about.
Now my sister is pregnant, and I’m tired of hearing about nothing but her baby to be. Yeah, that sounds rude, I guess, but it is true.
I also hate people I don’t know touching me. If I am ever pregnant, I’m sure I’ll harbor thoughts of not telling anyone. “Nope-I’m just really fat.”
Your essay makes me feel better about the choice I’m already making. I’m not the only one who feels this way. Thank you.
I am not pregnant, but I probably will be someday. All the fears you have outlined in this post are part of the reason that I have chosen to postpone childbearing for (counts in head) six years of my marriage so far.
As the pregnancy progresses, and when your child is small, would you consider revisiting this topic and letting us know how it worked out–if you were able to keep your identity? So many of us have this fear, and there are so few role models like you who are out there to tell us that it’s okay (and possible) to keep your identity after children.
Please keep writing.
Thanks so much for this. You summed it up beautifully.
In my case, my sudden lack of autonomy, the feeling of my body and my life being no longer my own, led to fairly severe post-partum depression (along with the rush of hormones and the sleep deprivation, of course). I think the fundamental truth of pregnancy and motherhood is that unfortunately, things do change. You stop sleeping, you eat differently, your body runs on a three hour schedule because that’s how long your baby can go between feedings. You feel (or at least I felt) trapped by other people’s schedules and demands on what little time you have to yourself.
Honestly, hold on to whatever you can that makes you you. Pregnancy changes you, and motherhood changes you even further. I wasn’t prepared for that.
Sorry to be Debbie Downer. It’s a fabulous essay. And for what it’s worth, in almost 10 months of pregnancy (I went almost 2 weeks over) I only had one belly-grab from a stranger. Good luck, and keep making pregnant women look reasonable, interesting, and sane.
Pregnancy is a public event in many ways, however it can also be one of the most intimately private events of a woman’s life. Partners, family, friends and strangers may join you in the external changes to your body, but only you can experience the feeling of having your child move and grow and learn their first things about the world inside you. You have such a unique, beautiful and private role.
I can imagine the frustration and shock when people want to touch your belly, it must feel like a huge intrusion, but touching your belly, talking pregnancy nonsense and constantly asking after your health are a way in which people share a molecule of joy with you.
I didn’t tell many people about my pregnancy until we knew that all was ok. Only my parents and a few friends who’d guessed by my lack of alcohol. This was the worst decision of my life. We lost our baby, it was the most devastating experience of my life. The despair was deepened by not being able to turn to friends in grief, or having to explain to a few that I was going to have a baby and that we lost it. I wish the world haf been able to share a little more in my joy, rather than my devastation.
Take care that in maintaining your privacy and self, you don’t isolate yourself. Enjoy every experience of pregnancy (I know the sickness and aches are a nightmare), but perhaps the frustration of people congratulating you is one to try to bear.
Best Wishes for your future.
It’s nice to see this feeling in words, I had all these same sentiments when getting married and having our first child. It really bugged me that everyone wanted to congratulate me on getting a man to marry me and then getting pregnant (after trying for so long-unbenownst to anyone except my MIL) when none of those people had anything to say to me when I graduated with my doctorate or about my research as a scientist. I understand that people celebrate marriage and the birth of a child, but I worked so much harder for my career than marriage or children that it just made me feel so undervalued as a person to experience the vast difference in public reception to the “I’m a scientist” versus the “We’re getting married/having a baby” statement. To this day my husband gets more questions about his work (automotive technician) than I ever get about my research – it’s just so irksome!
I understand the justifications for the difference in response, but I feel like I get to vent just this once in this forum for the plain unfairness of having to deal with it all! Booooo!
Wonderful article!
Interesting viewpoint. When I was her age I wanted to be pregnant and bring new life into the world and welcomed the changes it would bring to both myself and my husband. We would be starting a new family! I would be fulfilling my destiny as a woman and reaching a new status in my life. Things were different then – no social media beyond the telephone and TV set and fax. Sure I had a job (not a big-time career), but in those days we women celebrated pregnancy and new life and looked forward to it. In those days a woman’s highest calling was to bring new life into the world. That was the social more of the time. I loved it when people would ask about my pregnancy or want to feel my baby’s movement after 4 months and up until birth. I welcomed conversations about my new life, baby, nursing, plans for OUR future. I was told my life would change and my focus would be on my new child and that brought happiness, not fear of losing my identity. I knew I would be changing and having a new identity: mother. I often felt trepidation at taking on that role, but I wanted it and I needed it to fulfill a part of me. What a beautiful baby girl I had (in those days we didn’t have sonograms and didn’t know what sex our child would be) and how afraid I was that I wouldn’t care for her properly! I was a working mom during her school years until high school, then I quit to become a full-time fine artist that I had wanted to do my whole life. She was a beautiful young woman by then and went on to college and had a vigorous, fulfilling life which culminated in her chosen career of web designer. During those years we were all blessed by her character, sense of humor, deep sense of responsibility and nurturing. She too wanted nothing to do with having children, or being married. She traveled, lived the single life, had a life of fulfilling her personal dreams. Then eleven years ago, she developed a viral variety of uterine cancer and within six months she was gone. A few months before she passed, she told me that if she lived, she wanted to marry and if possible take on the responsibility of raising children and that was the only thing missing in her life. Of course, it wasn’t to be, but I want you to know that she did have that desire (she was 33 at the time)and she recognized what had been missing that she had been searching for all those years. I’m hoping you will open yourself to feeling the joy of being a woman and the joy of bring new life into this world. I’m praying you will reach the point she did an experience the key ingredient to being a woman. You have a choice to make about your happiness and life. God Bless You.
This post really sums up one of the reasons why I never want children and may never be married (or will elope if I do). I envy men. If they are getting married or having a child, their buddies will still talk work, politics, football games, etc. with them after maybe a question or two about the impending marriage/baby. They are still the people they were. Marriage and babies become a part of how they are seen by others, but it doesn’t override their previously existing identity. I feel like women do turn into ‘the bride’ or ‘the mom’ and no one realizes that they are people anymore. Is that really what society thinks of women – that our minds are so small that everything else just gets crowded out of our brains because there is only room for marriage and babies? I’m glad for people who can embrace the role of being a mother and find it something to take pride in, but I could never be that person. I’d like to be valued for my mind. Having babies the way we do just means that we are mammals, and I want to be celebrated for my human-specific abilities. I am so much more than my bodily functions that I never want to be reduced to them. I really do hope it gets better for women one day. I wish I could have been born when it was.
For those feel a woman should not have privacy, you ought to be ashamed for such disrepect. What kind of woman condemns another woman for wanting privacy? We have got to stop making these judgemental statements about women especially women wanting to decide when to let people in. No person has the right to tell a pregnant woman how to conduct her pregnancy. The baby is in her body and therefore IT IS about the woman.
If anyone wants to start a crusade for women/or pregnant women’s rights to maintain body privacy, let me know and I will join you!!!!!!!
One poster seems to think the pregnant woman should give in to the people who want to touch her and share in her joy even if the pregnant woman is uncomfortable and unhappy about the touching. How ludicrous!!!
So some people think an already swollen, uncomfortable, private pregnant woman should deny all her feelings for the sake of famiuly and other people, even if it makes her miserable. What is our world coming too. Such evil spewn at women!!
Pregnnacy is no more a public event than a man having an erection. We don’t remove men’s privacy events so why do we think that it is okay to broadcast a woman’s private time. And don’t say that having a baby is natural. Having an erection is natural too, but a man may want to keep the public out of that event. The same goes for a woman.
Aubrey: This was a powerful personal piece, and I appreciate that you shared it. It has helped give me some insight into my own formerly unexplainable apprehension to public weddings and pregnancy.
I am getting married in a month, and over the two years of planning, it has gone from a large ceremony exactly how we want it to be regardless of everyone else’s feelings, to a private elopement (after everyone else made their feelings known about our initial ideas), to a family only ceremony, and finally to a fairly traditional ceremony that I am still struggling to feel connected to.
Your writing has helped me understand that its not entirely about societal norms and pressures, but more about my understanding of myself and how these events and societal reactions impact my identity.
Thank you,
Brenda
Amen. I completely get this.
I totally sympathize with the fears of the author, but I also know that the impulse to keep the secret is playing into the oppressive celebrations and taboos that lace up the role of mother. My answer: be smart and full of motherstruck wonder. Be ambitious and uncensored and know your child is already a person. You will teach him or her to be whole by letting your motherhood into the text of your life on your own outrageous and beautiful terms.
Thank you so much for this perspective. When I got pregnant last year with a much-wanted baby, I had an instinctive desire not to share our happy news online. It wasn’t important to me that everyone in our virtual lives know. When I was “safely” well into my second trimester and when my friends started posting photos on facebook, I relented. I told facebook I was pregnant. Three weeks later, when I was no longer pregnant, I was nearly paralyzed with how to address it on facebook… in an absurd status update? Open to comments and conjecture? At the time, I felt ridiculous to worry about it, but your article makes me feel not so ridiculous — that part of being a mom and protecting your child is protecting his/her social media, as much as your own. I ended up having to deactivate my facebook account altogether, and I felt better — instantly. I share some of this in a related online discussion because your article helps me realize that our instincts to preserve privacy are still motherly instincts that we have every right to. Thank you.
I am so thankful to have come across this article as I have been having these same conversations with my fiance. I dread knowing I will show and will have no say in my privacy. Thankfully I have not been sick so no one seems to catch on, but it stresses me to tears to know things will change in another month or two. I consider strangers touching pregnant women assault, but I am apparently in the minority. Although I cannot wait for the day of an ultra-sound and seeing our precious baby, I have zero desire to include anyone beyond my fiance in any conversations about the baby or our parenting. It just feels wrong for some reason and I think I have a right to follow my instincts.
I am feeling so private about my experience being pregnant. Right now it is early and only my husband knows, but I am dreading the moment we have to tell anyone else. I don’t want the news on Facebook, and I don’t want to have to ask everyone not to put it on Facebook either.
I’m feel so fiercely protective of my body right now and it is such an intimate, personal journey that I resent having to proclaim it to others including family and friends. Yes, I realize they probay will just want to “share in my joy” and be a part of the experience… But I don’t feel like becoming a public spectacle so that other people can feel connected to the person growing inside me.
This is something between me, my maker, my husband and my future… I’m not comfortable making it a social event. It seems to cheapen for me.
You put a feeling I have had since childhood into such clear words: “I love attention. But I only want it for things that I have earned.” I have not been pregnant, but this article really resounded with me as a woman.
Thank you Aubrey for a wonderful article. I understand and support you. Don’t listen to the commenters who are try to make you feel that you are wrong. You are absolutely not wrong. These are your own personal feelings and most of us women feel the same way. We in this country have always tried to lay guilt trips on women and mothers for the decisions that they make about their lives and we have almost succeeded. So many women conform to all the male made rules in our society. So often women show their breasts and allow male relatives in the delivery room, all because people have worn them down and made them feel guilty about wanting privacy.
Women have go to be strong and do as men do when they do not allow anyone to invade their private spaces.
I like the comment about men not allowing anyone to touch their testicles. That was so funny, but true. I have seen people so determined to rub the woman’s pregnant belly that their hands came too close to another private area. A woman should not be made to feel guilty for not wanting people touching her belly.
I came across your essay because I typed “pregnancy and privacy” into google. Your words were just the medicine I needed today. I had not made any public, online announcements about my pregnancy because I wanted to hand-deliver this news to my friends, colleagues, and relatives the old-fashioned way: face-to-face, in an individualized fashion, in private. I started making these communications this week, since I had safely made it through the first trimester. My plans were hijacked by a friend of my husband’s who, upon hearing our news through the grapevine, posted “congratulations on being a new father!!” on his public social media page. I am trying not to be offended by her decision to make this announcement on our behalf, because I understand that she simply reacting out of excitement. Still, I think there is a distinct difference between sharing information via word-of-mouth within a community and broadcasting it in a public forum. Reading your words did help me realize that I am not unjustified in thinking that her post was inappropriate. He did remove her post, and is joining me in making personalized phone calls and coffee dates with all the people that we care to tell, on our terms, in our time! I’m happy to hear that I’m not the only woman out there who values the ability to communicate about her maternity on her own terms. Thank you Audrey thank you to all the people who commented, especially the rude ones! Thanks for making her point so obvious!
I’m very glad to have found this essay. I literally typed in a google search tonite after a dinner with my fiancee’s family as follows “Stop talking to me about being pregnant all the time!”
As an independent and very self-sufficient person I have fought for my autonomy and personhood for a lifetime…professionally, creatively, relationally etc. I know what you mean about feeling a sense of allowing around conversations related to your accomplishments, be they qualitative or quantitative, internal or external.
To have those so glibly brushed aside or just obliviously marginalized in the face of peoples’ own expectations, excitement or dreams around pregnancy is rather like a slap in the face. It feels like an easy out for people to be able to auto-pilot their way through what could be a meaningful interaction, were there not an obvious physical distraction/small talk opportunity.
To me, the reason casual or mass pregnancy attention is so annoying, is that is another excuse for people to be intra-personally lazy and default to any number of passe’ exchanges.
I’ve tried too hard to be scathingly honest with myself and the world for far too long, to feel super tolerant around people who want something new, shiny, and yet comfortingly familiar to bat around their verbal cage for awhile.
Thanks for writing this.
Followed a long string of surfing here, landing in November 2012. I find I resonate strongly to what you wrote, Aubrey, tho my last pregnancy was nearly 18 years ago. (And so, pre-social-media, tho I still used the proto-Internet actively.) I’ve struggled all through the years to find the space in life to still be Not Mom. I have a sticker-nametag stuck to my fridge with the ‘name’ “[daughter’s name]’s Mom” on it; I remember being amused at the time, thinking ‘these people have no clue who *I* am, and this is what’s relevant for the next few hours’. I put it on my fridge later, because I didn’t want to forget that relevance, nor that it was possible to be reduced to that. As someone who, growing up through high school, often felt awkward in social situations, feeling most ‘small talk’ was inane and being looked at oddly by others when I wanted to talk about e.g. the books I’d read that week, I have always had a strong ambivalence about my feeling that I finally had something to talk about (with the type of person who thought it weird that I read for fun, or read so much) after I had kids… that there was finally a common ground, and yet it is such a single comparatively small part of my being.
It’s sometimes depressing and sometimes amusing to realize I’ve been chattering on about my kids to people who are, themselves kid-less… feeling like I’m monopolizing the conversation, and saying, “Please, someone talk about something else, I’m able to have coherent conversations about things other than my kids!” … 22 years… nearly 18 years…
I’ve not looked for more info before writing this comment because, regardless, I wish you success in retaining all of your self as you move forward, success in integrating new aspects of identity (whatever they may be), and much joy in your journey.
Aubrey, Thank you for writing this. I have felt so alone in my fears and have not been able to articulate the intricacies of why, and this essay gives words to those emotions. I feel less alone this evening.
Rarely have I read anything that I related to more than I do this.
I really like this piece. There’s a deep truth in it for any intellectual woman contemplating the intrusions of (reproductive, in this case) biology into her life.
To me, this piece reads like a snapshot, like spontaneous thought. Like an expression of fear that everything that has been desired and built and valued might suddenly disappear. The worry that what you have so fervently wished for will be your undoing.
It won’t be, though. Many things will change, and for a while things may seem to go backward (or will not, at least, persist along the same path). And you will, of course, grieve that part of your life that has been lost. But it won’t be lost forever. It will be waiting for you. And all the parts of yourself you’ll think you have lost: they’ll be waiting for you, too, and they’ll know how to accommodate the new superstructure of your soul.
I know this because as an academic and writer, you are in much the same position I was when I got pregnant. All that work and all those plans and all the versions of myself that seemed to have been put at risk. But they weren’t. My only advice: don’t stop writing. The words will get you through.
I remember feeling some of the feelings you describe, when being pregnant.
In retrospect, it seems like a bit of denial….like making the focus about “other people” is perhaps distracting from whats really inside, literally and figuratively. Really it absolutely does not matter what people or society thinks or perceive you. Whats important, is that your life is about to change radically, and thats a fact. You will still be you. PLus more. And no body on the outside will have any idea or even understanding. So let that go. Motherhood, is by nature, in our culture, a rather private occupation. You’ll have more alone time with your babe than you ever imagined. And nobody will understand what it is really like…only you. So let go of what people think, or politics or society. Yes it can feel vulnerable, our biology requires help from those around us..being pregnant is vulnerable, and a beautiful celebration, so enjoy it..focus on your body..because no matter what any government body talks about, no one is in your body, when you birth a child…the most empowering activity on the planet. its hard to feel powerless after that.
I know this is an ‘older’ post, but I cannot believe how accurately you have described every emotion I am currently having. I’m a very successful PhD candidate, known in my field and at my university, and I’m sick of talks focusing on my practically non-existent bump rather than my latest chapter or how I won a grant. There are a select few that sense my anxiety and talk to me regularly about my work–reminding me that I am more than just a vessel–but the vast majority greet me with ‘How’s the bump?’ I just want to keep quiet about it, and now I know I’m not alone.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
I am 17 weeks pregnant and hating it. I am a very private person and all of a sudden I feel as though everyone is getting into my business. Like Aubrey, I have a partner who could not be more excited to tell everyone “We” are expecting, even though he has all of the fun and none of the physical, hormonal, or psychological torture that pregnancy, impending labor, and motherhood will bring. He still gets to go to bars, drink every night, and eat whatever food and medicine he cares to, while I am watching my weight and urged not to take ANY substance that (God forbid) will help me feel better just because someone said that someone’s mom said that it was not alright to. I thought I was a horrible person for not wanting to talk to every person ever about being pregnant, and more and more I find individuals who seem to feel the same as me. I am proud that women in our society have become more than wives and baby makers, and it makes me feel so frustrated when our identities are reduced back to such things during times when a new part of our lives is added and not replacing anything else. Thank you so much for posting this in such an eloquent way, and thank you to the supporters who also commented. I am so grateful for others who voice their concern over pregnancy becoming a public affair and not the private one it should be. (Because it’s a medical condition, like anal cancer and lupus, but we don’t ask either type of patients 2o questions, now do we?) For those of you who believe it is alright to touch a person without their consent, you should google the definition of battery.
For what it’s worth, they ask every patient if the pregnancy was planned, regardless of the ring, etc. I think it’s so that they can give you appropriate medical advice and talk to you about the pregnancy in the right way. If it was uber-planned, you probably know your precise due date and were taking prenatals all along (they’ll still check these things with you, but they can walk through it more quickly). If it was not planned but welcomed, they’ll maybe have to do a dating ultrasound and get you on prenatals right away. If it’s unplanned and unwelcomed, they can give you information about different options (including termination), as well as referring you to counseling to talk to someone about those options if you’re not sure of what to do.
As for the actual article I agree with the author’s sentiment of people caring more about marriage & babies than accomplishments. I got engaged when I applied to graduate school and everyone was all about the wedding instead of my many acceptance letters coming in. People were more respectful of my career when I defended my dissertation pregnant (the congratulations were actually about the PhD a lot of the time), but I think that’s in part because most of my friends at that point were academics.
I know that getting pregnant is not much of an accomplishment, but making a baby (getting through to delivery) and raising a child really are. They’re huge accomplishments deserving of congratulations. It doesn’t matter that so many people in this world are able to do them, whereas only a small handful are as accomplished in writing as you are. Having a kid is still a really big f*cking deal.
I just want to applaud this article because so many of the things you mention I am struggling with. Really and truly struggling with. And even to struggle with these things is considered taboo in our society. I have only told a few people and they do not seem concerned about the never ending morning sickness so bad that robs me of my sleep. And now I am supposed to tell people how excited I am. My husband doesn’t even understand my dark feelings I have about this pregnancy even though he sees me physically suffer. He does understand when I cry because I have thrown up so much that I have torn my esophagus. He just asks when we can tell people. I want to hate everyone that is not having morning sickness right now.
I am getting to the point I can’t hide this much longer and I just want to go into hiding. I don’t want to have the conversations about every detail of my life and choice I have made and will make. I have grown even more adimant about a women’s right to choose after this ordeal. I have no even been able to work and I have a flexible job. I saw somewhere someone say that if men could get pregnant that abortions would be done through drive thru’s. I agree with this statement. If this is a daughter I am carrying I want her to have the same rights and more than I have been afforded. I want her to know that it is ok no matter what she decides. The only thing that gets me through is that if I just can’t handle one more night and decide I can’t do this anymore that there is an out. Pyschologically I need an out, not to use, but to know it is there is comfort enough.
I am dreading having my belly touched. I am dreading conversations about birth, breast-feeding and how I am feeling. I am feeling awful. This entire process is disgusting and terrible that is how I feel, but what if I actually said that????
I am a private person. I don’t want to have these conversations with my friends, family or co-workers.
I applaud you for your not wearing a ring and takig a stand. Do what you want and be proud for doing so. You are a brave woman. We need more brave women.
Hi, I know it’s been a few years since this was published, but I just saw it today and am grateful for it. I’m going through many of the same feelings (though some of them different) and the words you’ve chosen will be useful in explaining how I feel to others. Thanks.
Thank you so much for articulating what has been so hard for me.
Thank you for this. It’s everything I have been feeling the last 12 weeks.
Thank you so much for sharing your thoughts and articulating so well feelings I have had all through my pregnancy. It is extremely comforting to know that other women feel the way I do. Thank you
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