John Wayne and Suppositories: Pregnancy 101

Our lives began to change long before we held our child in our arms.

There was the actual pregnancy to deal with, which we both approached in radically different ways. My husband viewed my changing body with a sense of awe and pride. In his mind, my shifting silhouette was proof positive that his boys could swim, that he was the consummate manly man. Yup, a few minutes of unprotected sleepy sex, and Scott was suddenly John Wayne. He walked with a noticeable swagger and drew out his vowels in an unnatural way. I drew the line at him wearing a cowboy hat, cap guns and a leatherette holster to bed over his cowboy pajamas.

I, on the other hand, viewed my changing body with a mixture of overwhelming nausea and crippling constipation. To be fair, I will note that there was a certain amount of not quite unwelcome popularity associated with the pregnancy. It was something like being a minor celebrity. People would point and whisper in awe as I passed and, though no one necessarily took my picture or asked for autographs, I was occasionally graced with certain perks, like a pro-bono biscotti at Starbucks. (I know, I know, you’re jealous. A free biscotti at Starbucks?! Some people just have it all….)

But like A-list celebrities who assume that the paparazzi will always love them, the novelty of the attention soon grew old. When my favorite clothier had the sale of all sales, I could only look on in envy at the ecstatic women clutching numerous bags of their discounted clothing and accessories, uncertain of what my size would be post child and whether the current styles would even still be “in” at the time I might be able to fit into non-maternity clothes. When a group of coworkers drooled over a new line of sleek patent leather footwear with a long, slim heel, I could only participate vicariously and pout at my swollen feet. Even luxury items like scented body lotions were out of the question because they would send me rushing to the nearest bathroom to relieve the contents of my perpetually queasy stomach. Never had I needed a drink more and never, not even as a seventeen year old college student at a state university, had a drink been further out of my reach.

While my husband spent hours in the mirror attempting to imitate John Wayne’s gait and drawl (leaving many to wonder whether he had suffered a stroke), I found myself feeling increasingly uncomfortable and alone. I had never noticed how many non-pregnant women with thighs that don’t touch (Can you believe it??) are out there in the world. Suddenly, my neighborhood had turned into a population of hard-bodies. While I lumbered along on my swollen feet, the retired couple next door took up jogging and lifting weights. Where would it end? I longed for a support group of similarly swelling, nauseous, and constipated women, but I must have been the only pregnant woman in the Chicagoland area that year because I swear I was alone in my hugeness-- no wonder my OB/GYN was so nice to me; he needed my business.

At my lowest (and largest), I wondered whether my husband longed for another, more slender woman who didn’t smell like vomit or need to use suppositories. Every woman began to look like a potential husband stealer. I didn’t even trust my husband to be alone with my anemic, elderly great aunt. In the hormonal sea that is pregnancy, I became neurotic and jealous of all things slender. I knew things were getting bad when I called a long, slim banana in the produce section of my local grocery a man hungry witch (only I didn't say "witch"). It was time to swallow my pride and own up to my husband about my growing fears. I just couldn’t keep tormenting produce in this way.

Let me take a moment to describe my husband. He is one of those easy-going, gorgeous guys that women would love to steal but can’t because he is too oblivious and wholesome to notice their advances. He is tall and blond with green eyes and long, girly lashes. In all honesty, he is even a pretty good listener—as long as I tell him he needs to FOCUS because I am saying something IMPORTANT. If he were the type to complain, he would probably point out that he has the body of an aging athlete, but that is part of what I love about him. Sure, he has a couple extra pounds, but that just makes him all the more accessible. And (he would hate it if I told this to anyone so we need to keep this just between ourselves) he even gives backrubs on occasion and will iron. How I landed this guy is anyone’s guess. I must have been a martyr in a previous life and given my life for some sort of good cause.

So, given that Scott is awesome in practically every way, I felt confident that he would listen and understand my perverse fears. I wasn’t disappointed. He gave me a squeeze and told me that no woman, regardless of slender figure, anti-vomit smell, and fully functioning gastrointestinal tract could ever take my place. True, he drawled it out ala’ John Wayne, but the thought was still there. Did I tell you I have one of the good ones? That night, I even let him wear his hip belt and cap guns to bed.

Sex, Lies, and Fischer Price: What Oprah Doesn't Tell You About Family Life

One of my friends broke things off with her fiancé, quit her job at a suburban synagogue in order to pursue an acting career in the big city, and now spends entire afternoons participating in “hot house yoga” and schlepping from audition to agent to temp job to audition—and she loves it.

Another quit her job of fifteen years, moved out of Chicago for digs in rural Wisconsin, bought a motorcycle, and now lives a zen life in the woods.

One, believe it or not, became a nun, took a teaching position at a local Catholic university, and then quit the convent and moved to Brazil to live on the beach with a lover she met online.

All of these women are blissfully happy. However, note the absence of husband and children in each of those cases. While my friends opted for lives focusing individually and exclusively on career, spirituality, or love, I decided to multi-task and GO FOR THE GUSTO. I wanted it ALL: career, spirituality, love, home, husband, AND family. Further, I actually believed it was all possible. After all, I am one of the female children born in the seventies who actually bought into the party line that we women, with the right education and a "say no to drugs" attitude (thank you, Nancy Reagan), could easily have it all. Clearly, I was doomed from the outset.

Thus, I spent years and years of my life being a good student, a leader in various organizations, and an exemplary employee. Then, I married one of the same. Together, we climbed the middle class ladder. We weren’t ones to keep up with the Joneses, probably not because we were above that sort of behavior, but because we were too busy talking on our cell phones to even notice the Joneses. We socialized with like-minded friends, held barbeques, went on weekend trips where we spent luxurious hours making love in cozy bed and breakfasts, bought all the cool new technology coming out on the market, spent an extraordinary amount of time worrying about ridiculous things like our body fat indexes, and then bought a house with a big yard. It was then that we decided that things were going so well that we should complete the package and procreate. After all, we had spent ten years together as a couple. We had taken the litmus test of marital stability and we’d passed with flying colors-- not to mention that our parents were starting to really lay on the pressure and whenever my mother would visit she’d open my refrigerator and announce, “Your eggs are approaching their expiration date,” and look at me pointedly. Besides, the ten years we had been together had showed Scott to be good father material (which means I still thought his quirks were cute) and, Lord knows, I was perfect in every way. Further, we believed that our mission statement (“With the right education and attitude anything is possible!”) would guide us serenely through the next couple decades of our lives as easily as it had the last. Besides, how difficult could parenting be?

In short, we were chumps. Parenting, regardless of education and attitude, is very, very hard. Like. Oh. My. God. Hard.

To be fair, our naiveté was not entirely our fault. Friends, family, and coworkers would turn doe-eyed when anyone mentioned the impending arrival of a new baby. They’d murmur things like, “a baby is a blessed event,” and “nothing smells as sweet as a new baby.” A surprising number of our near and dear even went so far as to inquire when we were going to have children…and this was while we were engaged. New parents we encountered swallowed their true feelings, smiled, and mumbled that they were blissfully happy rather than admit the truth that they were clueless, half-mad with lack of sleep, and questioning their ability to make it through the next hour, let alone the next twenty years. How were we to know they were dissembling? Even big business is in on the game. Entire aisles of nationwide retailers provide sporty-looking baby items with advertisements featuring smiling young people (too young and well rested to realistically be parents, in my opinion) confidently cruising along with a grinning baby in tow. Entire industries are devoted to churning out pale pink, watercolor blue, lemony yellow, and sage green mini-items for mini-humans. It is as though these retailers are implying that nothing swaddled in little lemon yellow duckies could possibly induce any sort of stress whatsoever, so go ahead and combine sperm with egg and spend, spend, spend! Even the media does a very good job of covering up the truth that no parent really knows what the hell is going on and is just stumbling along blind and shit-scared that they are ruining their children. Commercials show new parents confidently smiling down at their little sleeping bundles of joy. Television shows, though no longer quite as simplistic as Father Knows Best, portray parents who, while not exactly model citizens at all times, seem to have the low-down on what makes their kids tick. Why the deception? Why the deceit? Why aren’t people up in arms shouting from rooftops that being a parent is not the Disney image currently advertised? Why isn’t Oprah devoting entire weeks of programming to uncovering this myth? Oh, et tu, Oprah? Et tu?

Oh sure, the signs were there if we had known to look for them. But why would the blissfully ignorant look for signs?