Wins & Woes; from gratitude to guilt
This essay is the sequel to “A Sunrise Intuition; Sneaking Out at Thirty-Four”
As I hid the third test in the bathroom drawer with the other two, my thoughts sprung back and forth in my mind like the silver balls in a pinball machine.
I’ve anticipated this moment. I’ve looked forward to it. Why do I feel… nervous? Is it because we weren’t actually trying yet? Because we’re only two months into a casual “let’s see what happens” after removing our form of contraception from the equation? This happened so quickly. Was it too quickly? Only we can judge that. Are we ready? I don’t know how we could be more ready. I think we’re as ready as we’re going to be. I’m excited. I feel excited. I feel… happy.
And fuck it is absolutely freezing in this bathroom.
My goosebumps dissipated as I exited the downstairs icebox of a bathroom (where I had more privacy in a house full of inquisitive [nosey] family members). The bedroom upstairs welcomed me warmly, filling with early rays and Adam wearing what I refer to as his “morning face”. A morning face has slightly swollen features, eyelids that haven’t quite warmed up yet, and skin that’s almost hot to the touch. Any attempts at words are usually unintelligibly mumbled, high-pitched nonsense. It’s more like a state than a “face”. It’s a poofy, pillowy, vulnerable delight.
This wore off, and I let a sense of normalcy fill the room (and my gut) before breaking the news with a grin:
“You’re going to be a dad.”
The light brought out the blue in Adam’s widening eyes…
Eyelids are warmed up! Eyelids are warmed up!
A grin formed on his face as the more serious, awed expression of realization he wore only a second earlier faded. His eyes drifted to my belly:
“There’s a little Bub in there?” he asked with a warm tone and goofy demeanor.
I giggled and nodded, grinning ear to ear:
“I think there is!”
We were giddy. A simple, nearly poetic moment at the intersection of complete elation, overwhelming excitement, and a shit-just-got-real pounding of the heart.
“Shit,” Adam said with a chuckle, “people are going to think I proposed because you’re pregnant!”
“Fuck what people think.”
Then, the Adam antics started:
“You didn’t lay on him last night, did you!”
Such absurd humor but I couldn’t help but break out in laughter.
“Adam, it’s the size of a sesame seed.”
“Don’t say that! He can hear you!”
Are these dad jokes already! Also, what’s this “he” business?
“That’s your job. You don’t worry about anything but making sure he’s fed real good, that you don’t lay on him, and that he gets fresh blood. Okay?”
“Okay, okay, he’ll be well fed. When have you known me to be undernourished? And I won’t lay on him. But… fresh blood?”
“Yes Molly, he needs exercise!”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
“You sound pretty convinced already that it’s a boy.”
“Well, yeah. There’s a little Hercules in there… He has Thor arms.”
“Sesame seed. And don’t pull your Chris Hemsworth crush into this moment.”
Once my laughter ceased, I quenched my thirst by chugging from my water bottle. Adam looked at me in comical dismay:
“Well, don’t drown him!”
I almost spat water all over the room. My giggling fit was nearly too much in that moment of so many emotions. Dad jokes indeed.
This is my life now, I thought. This is going to be an entertaining (and potentially annoying!) incubation period.
In hindsight, both Adam and I have rolled our eyes at the fact that I didn’t tell him about my suspicion and early morning jailbreak immediately. I’m not sure why I felt that I needed to be certain. When it came to telling other people outside of our little family-to-be, we agreed, but not with the social norm.
I’ve gathered that the majority of pregnant women wait to share the news until they’re safely at the end of the first trimester or beginning of the second. I had suspected this was because until this point, there’s a higher risk of miscarriage, but I never quite knew what the relevance was in that. Since I’ve been expecting, I’ve asked a few people and have also heard all about this reasoning in the book “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” (which is a book that turned out to very much not be for me, but if you’d like a neurotic amount of reserved pregnancy information and advice, it could be for you). I was told that waiting is to “protect the Mom” in the case of a miscarriage. Upon hearing this, I was confused. Protect her from what, exactly?
Sounds more like it would be protecting others from the discomfort of receiving the tragic news while simultaneously neglecting Mom of a much needed support network.
One of my doctors (not my O.B.) explained:
“…it protects the Mom in case of a miscarriage because she usually feels guilt in thinking she could have, or should have, done something different. That it’s her fault.”
So, if I’m understanding this right, it’s so expected for me to feel guilt if I miscarry that it’s more helpful not to have my friends and family be aware of my guilt, so they can offer words of encouragement and support? But rather, conceal my guilt and surround it with solitary space to fester and escalate into shame?
No, thanks.
Waiting to share our delight was a notion too conservative for Adam and me. I wrote on the subject when we found out we were expecting:
“If this pregnancy doesn’t stick, we will both need the vulnerable exposure of having to share that hard truth with friends and loved ones and the willingness to ask them for their support. I understand not wanting to shout it from the shallow mountaintops of Facebook or Instagram, so heaps of acquaintances can congratulate me while I feel a bizarre pressure to respond to each comment. But I don’t think I want to post it anyway. I’d like to share what I write about the experience on my website and post that while simultaneously sharing with loved ones as it feels right or comes up along the way. Organically.”
There was, however, the question of what to do until we had a conclusive confirmation from the doctor. Until then, we would wait. This included my parents, and we happened to be in Wisconsin for another day and a half. This might not seem like a long time to have to hold out, but if you know my family (unreserved, extroverted, inquisitive) and my relationship with them (porous boundaries, gregarious)… it’s an eternity. Adam genuinely asked if I thought I could do it. I really didn’t want to get their hopes up until I had the blood test and knew it’d be especially grueling while coming off my favorite consumables and guilty pleasures.
Nicotine withdrawals, the wintry holiday season without alcohol, and an overwhelming list of what I was supposedly not able to eat—which included both the rare and charcuterie meats waiting for me in the fridge. Need I say more on the matter of agitation and irritability?
Eventually, as this escalated throughout the day, Adam chimed in with an ultimatum:
“You either need to get it together and be nice, or tell your parents why you’re acting like this.”
Hmm, he does have a point, I thought. Plus, then we’d get to tell them in person. We can just explain that I obviously haven’t been to the doctor for a blood test yet.
“Okay. We’ll tell them.”
He might have been thinking I’d try to get it together, but I was in no mood.
I prefaced our little sit down by informing my parents that what we were about to tell them hadn’t been confirmed by a doctor and that until it was, we weren’t going to tell anyone. But we had news:
“You’re going to be Grandparents.”
Now, this was a big moment—huge even! But not as monumental as it maybe would have been if they didn’t already know that as of a couple months earlier, we had decided we wanted this and that it was time to “see what happens” and then begin trying after a period of time (a period that we hadn’t concluded, mind you). I hadn’t planned on disclosing anything of the sort to them, but after telling my siblings and then giving in to tell my mom, I couldn’t not tell my dad, and as you now know, this is just how things work in our family’s open dynamic. I remember my youngest sister bringing her college boyfriend home to meet our family for the first time. Upon meeting all of us on arrival, he had a an “a-ha” moment, which he shared with my sister:
“You’re all like this.”
Sure are!
I am grateful that we were able to share the news with my parents in person, especially since telling someone they’re going to become grandparents only happens once. I could feel the joy fill the room in that moment. If I hadn’t literally been at my parent’s house when I took the tests and was instead back in San Diego, I would have gotten them something that said “Grandma” and “Grandpa” on it, as they had with my Dad’s parents when they were pregnant with me (I was the first grandchild on that side of the family, whereas I was something like the 37th on my mom’s side).
I tried to cease that joy and the joy from gradually expanding the recipients of our news as the first trimester went along. But I mostly kept to myself. My depression grew as did the time I spent hurling over the toilet each afternoon, for one-hundred days in a row (it was in fact 97 days, but I’m taking this three digit liberty). I didn’t have much of a desire to speak to anyone, frankly. Overwhelming fatigue (almost comparable to my Lyme Disease), near constant nausea with or without actual vomit, and a baffling sense of hopelessness and impending doom. It was a confusing and frustrating time; to be so delighted to open a new chapter while everything about my body and soul seemed to object with vigor. I’m not one to ask for help, accept a lack of productivity, or lean into what I feel my body needs when that necessity is rest. A friend of mine had told me, prior to me getting pregnant, that expecting was her absolute favorite thing; she loved it and wished she could be pregnant all the time. She even considered being a surrogate she loved it so much. Recalling this, I nearly threw up, again. In return, I shared in Ron Burgundy‘s voice that I’d love to punch her right in the baby maker for saying that, and we had a good laugh.
An acquaintance of mine, who recently had her first child, was debilitatingly sick her entire pregnancy. A friend back home in Wisconsin told my mom a few weeks ago that she doesn’t know what it is that’s making this pregnancy of hers so awful as her first two (years ago) had been so easy. She thought maybe it’s because she’s into her thirties now. She said after this one, she’ll never do it again. I’ve been hearing that more and more; our neighbors with the little girl, and Adam’s colleague’s wife last week… the list goes on. It had never crossed my mind that the pregnancy itself could be a reason of mine to have less kids. I had forever assumed it’d be primarily a combination of financial burden and energy demand/exertion. Yet I find myself telling people more and more:
“I don’t want to do this shit again.”
It baffles me how much the spectrum of experiences vary here though I suppose it shouldn’t. I hear from some like my mom, who didn’t necessarily enjoy being pregnant but wasn’t sick or nauseous or even really that tired outside of the first trimester. Then there’s the hyperemesis gravidarum hospital cases and those put on bedrest. My gratitude journal each morning grounds me and gives me perspective. And admittedly, I’ve referred to cases like these on tough days to authenticate that gratitude when it otherwise feels forced or disingenuous.
My doctor recently told me that he wishes more women would talk about pregnancy like I do; blatantly candid, for what it is, rather than this fallacy of a magical incubation period. Or even just… good. “Good” is so often our go-to response in this country, whereas in Europe I’ve almost exclusively been faced with my genuine replies, for better or worse (I tend to think almost always for better).
Many women agreed with me and shared their stories with me but only after I came right out to quite frankly say that I don’t like being pregnant. They unearthed themselves to show a raise of hands.
There’s an anticipated guilt in voicing the taboo of not enjoying the journey of childbearing as if that is supposed to say something about our devotion to motherhood, competence to mother, or worthiness of mothering.
As women, we have enough we’re expected to feel guilty about (while striving to push back on the shame that can fester if we don’t make space for that guilt), and I absolutely love bringing that shit to the surface of the page and forefront to the conversation. Writing is how I best express myself, whether I’m proving a point or bringing humor to that which is taboo to so much as smirk at.
