Keep It To Yourself
I write this dispatch from the beginning of the third trimester. (NB: THIS IS NOT A MOMMY BLOG ((not that there’s anything wrong with that)) (((especially if storq.com wants to send me some free shit))) So far, this pregnancy has been blessedly uneventful. But pregnancy in itself is a most bizarre turn of events. Is this—incubating what will become an autonomous human in my own body—seriously the best we’ve come up with? Why can’t he grow in a jar in the corner, and I’ll change his water once a week like a pet turtle, and then nine months hence he will emerge from his container to say, “Hello, I am your baby”? That to me makes so much more sense than growing a whole extra ass organ for this extra ass person.
Anyway, I am large and not so much in charge, because my ever-expanding womb has recently become a locus of much conversation and speculation. I’m the size where Scott now gets the lady side of the table at dinner, lest my torso take out an entrée as I try to wriggle in. Yes, I realize how p-word privileged I am to be a socially sanctioned size most of the time, and not to endure routine judgment for my body merely existing in the world. And please spare me the speech of This is the one time you are supposed to be big! Embrace it! You’d rather be too big than too small! Sure. But I am literally measuring two fundal height weeks ahead of schedule. Both me and my baby’s father are big people, so you know, science. But I swear to god if I have to field one more inquiry of “any day now, huh?” only to rebuke the nosy nelly with a “Nope, TWO AND A HALF MORE MONTHS!” I will eat my hat.
Which is why this week, I recommend: keep it to yourself. Silence costs nothing.
Being a woman never stops, even in pregnancy, turns out. I loathe the other “mamas” in prenatal yoga class (why, oh why, must we be referred to as “mamas”? What’s wrong with “matriarchs”? Or “citizens”? Or “people making people”?) who are due around the same time as me, or even further along in their pregnancies, and yet somehow smaller than me, who look as if they just ate a foot-long sub and not Pittsburgh, as I do. I realize this kind of comparison is entirely fruitless and self-defeating, and yet I can’t seem to help myself. Well, their babies are going to be malnourished idiots, I think. Yet I find no relief. How come I can still see that lady’s triceps and she’s 38 weeks, and I’ve never once glimpsed my elusive triceps? It’s just rude.
People are mostly really nice to you when you are pregnant. Many have told me I look “great.” I love compliments more than anyone, I need them like air and water (not my fault, I’m a Leo rising). But when I hear this, I have to fight the urge to autocorrect and say, “I think you mean I look….interesting.” I told my friend Christopher this conundrum and he observed, “Maybe they mean ‘great’ like a white whale.” That made me laugh, hard. Yes, I look vast, impressive, maybe even majestic.
Whatever, I can do self-loathing on my own. What I cannot handle, however, is the advice! I met Brooke for lunch the other day at a tiny Thai place by her work in the financial district, the kind of place where you order at the counter. We were in line when a woman (who, I will note, worked for the MTA, as evidenced by the ID card on a lanyard she proudly flaunted on her lunch hour rather than hiding it in shame, which should tell you everything you need to know about her mental state) said to me in all seriousness, “I hope you’re not eating shellfish or peanuts. I ate so many peanuts when I was pregnant, and now my son has a terrible peanut allergy.” Thank you,
Dr. Subway! I’ll keep your visage in mind any time I am in the bowels of Hoyt-Schermerhorn, waiting for the C train like I’m waiting for Godot.
The most egregious incident took place at a deli in Long Beach. I took off to play weekday beach hooky, one of the most decadent treats in the Liz Greenwood repertoire, and there I was, ordering my picnic, when a man (A MAN! A very strange man indeed!) approached me and asked, “Do you plan on breastfeeding?”
Can you even?!?!?!?! I was so taken aback by his casual warfare that I couldn’t muster a snappy comeback, like “Clearly you weren’t!” or even empathic, like “I realize whatever you are about to say is meant well, but feels awfully invasive” or even straightforward like, “It’s none of your business.” Instead I mumbled, “Um, I’m going to see how it goes?” I steeled myself for the inevitable lecture on the benefits of breastfeeding which goes something like, “Do you want your child to be a serial killer? No? Then whip out that titty!” Instead, he launched into a treatise on how I need to go to the health food store immediately to purchase some supplement at once that helps baby brain development, while his lobes remain sorely impoverished.
Harassing visibly pregnant women should seem like an etiquette no-brainer. People just want to say something, engage somehow, so they end up saying anything, and it's often the wrong thing. I’m guilty of it too. My mouth so often has the aftertaste of foot. So, I recommend we just never comment on anyone’s physical appearance ever again. If you are struggling for something to say, really dying to give a compliment, consider admiring how good your interlocutor smells. Everyone likes to smell pleasing.
Recommended reading:
A Terrible Country by Keith Gessen
When Katie Met Cassidy by Camille Perri
This profile of Riz Ahmed
Meghan Daum, forever and always
What are you recommending these days?