being pregnant sucks.

Being pregnant sucks.

(Disclaimer: I am going to complain a whole bunch about my relatively easy pregnancy. I recognize that pregnancy is not nearly as easy for others, and others struggle to get pregnant at all. I know that I am fortunate. But I still have things to complain about.)

It’s not necessarily the physical stuff that sucks. Yes, I was sick for months and am constantly tired. Yes, pants hurt now. Yes, I have had to give up delicious foods like pressed juices and sprouts and obviously alcohol. But none of that sucks too bad.

It’s society that makes pregnancy suck.

I have an incredibly supportive partner, as well as amazing family and friends. They are making this pregnancy as much of a positive experience as it can be. It’s everyone else that presents a challenge.

Even though I write a blog about all sorts of thoughts and feelings, I am a pretty private person. That is especially true when it comes to matters of health. I have never felt more private and protective than I have about this pregnancy. At the time we became pregnant, James and I had been together for twelve years, married for six. We were 32 years old. People had started to give up on the idea of us having kids. What I mostly didn’t want to hear upon announcing our pregnancy was “finally” or “it’s about time” or some variation thereof, which we heard all over the place when we became engaged. Luckily, my wonderful family and friends never said anything of the sort. They were stunned, to be sure, but happy.

It was even kind of fun to make the Facebook announcement, which we didn’t do until five months into the pregnancy. 

I was on the fence about this at first, as so many of my Facebook friends are people that I barely know, and James’s Facebook friends even more so. However, James and I wanted our more distant family and friends to know - so we went with the Facebook post after all. And it was basically fine. We got nice comments from all over the place, including quite a few from strangers (to me). It feels a little weird for that many people to know about what’s happening in my uterus, but that’s the Facebook price. (And because of this, I had a stranger who heard from a friend who saw this on Facebook come in to congratulate me by calling me "little miss pregnant librarian." COME ON.)

What I didn’t want to do is tell everyone I knew. James didn’t either. However, in the workplace, one has a sort of obligation. James told his coworkers, and I told mine. And once we did, the floodgates opened. Word spread like wildfire around our small town. Now everyone who comes into the library, whether I know them or not, has something to say about my pregnancy. I realize it’s all coming from a good place in their hearts, but dammit if I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to talk to anyone besides my chosen few about how I’m feeling. I don’t want to talk about my ultrasounds or whether or not the baby is kicking or if I’ve moved into maternity pants or not/how much weight I’ve gained (yes, more than one relative stranger has asked me that). 

If we’re friends, you can ask me that stuff. If we’re not, you can’t. Seems simple. Thanks for the congratulations, but we don't need to talk about anything else.

But alas, being pregnant suddenly makes me public property.

I am 21 weeks pregnant as I write this, and I don’t yet look very pregnant. Because of this, I am fortunate enough not to have had strangers ask to touch my belly yet. I’ve been told this is inevitable. As a non-toucher to begin with, this is most certainly not going to be ok. I also have not had strangers judge me for drinking coffee (which I have not given up) because of my “she might be pregnant but I’m not totally sure” appearance. 

What I have had are semi-strangers (ie, people who happen to know I’m pregnant through the community grapevine) give me looks when they see me with a Dr. Pepper at a restaurant. I have been out and about a few places without a coat on mildly chilly days, and acquaintances are quick to remind me I have a baby to think about, so I should be wearing a coat. I am several months away from giving birth, and I’ve already been deemed a bad mom.

The other day, James asked me what the best part about being pregnant is. My answer was immediate: “Not having to clean the litter box.”

I, as you may have guessed, am not particularly maternal. I have always preferred kittens to babies, and I don’t actually anticipate that changing. Kids were never a part of my idealized future - until I met and fell in love with James. The ultimate reason I decided to have kids? Because James is great, and I’d like to meet his kids. Seriously. That’s it. I can’t stop thinking about a line from the masterpiece film The Birdcage in which Armand goes to meet his son’s birth mother. She states she is not particularly maternal, to which Armand responds that he is and Albert (his partner) “is practically a breast.” That’s James.

James is the complete opposite from me in many ways. One of the ways is this pregnancy. While I am keeping it all close to my chest, he wants to talk about it with everyone he can. And that’s fine. Typically, in a small town such as this, it’s expected that the father-to-be will be more aloof and the mother-to-be will talk your ear off. Not so in our case. I’m the aloof one, and James will talk baby stuff all day long. But the small-town stereotype persists, so if someone talks to James about the pregnancy, they will inevitably come to me (again, whether I know them or not) and expect to talk about it in greater detail. 

And I’m just not into it. 

I have been a realist since the day I was born, and I am absolutely not of the camp that believes pregnancy is a miracle. It’s basic science. It’s totally crazy how our cells can divide and divide to become this completely complex creature all while I’m just sitting here, but it’s still no miracle. So I definitely don’t feel the need to talk about “the miracle of life.”

There’s a plot line in the TV show Sex and the City where the character Miranda accidentally gets pregnant. Her attitude towards pregnancy mirrors mine nearly exactly. She’s very matter-of-fact about it without all the big feels. In one episode, she has a sonogram to reveal the baby is a boy. Miranda stares blankly at the screen until she notices the ultrasound tech staring back at her, waiting for a reaction. Miranda breaks into a big fake smile and says with false enthusiasm, “A boy! Boy, oh, boy!” 

 That is EXACTLY how I feel. (We’re having a boy.) 

(Miranda also says something later in that episode about how weird it is to be growing a tiny penis inside you, and it truly is the weirdest thing in the world. How does my body even know how to do that?!)

So now that we’ve found out we’re having a boy, the invasiveness has reached a new level. People now asking me if I’m disappointed we’re having a boy, and did I want a girl? Again, STRANGERS ARE ASKING ME THAT. These same near-strangers are telling me that “boys are the best,” which seems like a weird thing to say. They also tell me that every father wants a son more than anything - assuming they know James’s deepest desires. (For the record, he just wanted a baby. Boy or girl.)

Oh, and everyone and their mother wants to know what we’re going to name our son. For one, we certainly haven’t decided at this point. And even if we had, we’re keeping it to ourselves until we actually have a live outside-the-womb baby to name. Even so, it’s amazing how many name suggestions people have for us. That we didn’t ask for.

Again, I GET all this is coming from a positive place. People are trying to be nice. But I’m also trying to get through this very weird time in my life without feeling like a goldfish in a glass bowl: a creature to be observed unabashedly.

Despite all this unwanted attention, pregnancy is so much lonelier than I thought it would be. 

I am apparently joining this elite motherhood club, but not a single one of my friends is pregnant right now. Even if they were, pregnancy is so incredibly different from person to person that it would probably feel just as lonely. Certainly not every pregnant person feels like me - there are plenty out there who would love to talk to you about their morning sickness and swollen feet.

One of the ways in which it is super lonely is the drinking aspect. I don’t want to make myself or my friends and family out to be boozehounds, but casual drinks are just a part of our gatherings. For example, every December we get together with our friends Nate and Taylor and have a celebration we call Norwegian Christmas. It’s Scandinavian tradition to have a shot of aquavit before dinner, and it’s our own tradition to craft some kind of drink out of aquavit each year. This time, I can’t take part in it. And it’s really bumming me out. I recently went on a trip to Kansas City with some friends from grad school, and we visited a ton of breweries and cool bars. This would normally be one of my favourite things to do, but I had to sit on the side and watch my friends drink these lovely craft beers and fancy cocktails. I still had a good time, but there’s just that little bit that kept me separate from the rest.

Don’t get me wrong: I am excited for this new chapter in our lives. I am scared out of my mind, yes. Life is totally going to change, but I hear it’s a good change. That’s something I consistently hear from my friends who are parents, even those who approached the situation with trepidation like me.

So bottom line: being pregnant is super weird and uncomfortable, but I think it will be worth it.

In the meantime, I just don’t want to talk to strangers about whether or not I am successfully treating my stretch marks. Are we friends? Then YES, you can ask me about any of these things. Are we acquaintances? DON’T ASK ME WEIRD QUESTIONS.

Is that so much to ask?