33 weeks
The other day I finally responded to the "pregnancy picture" sitting in my email box. It had been there for more than a week, demanding some kind of acknowledgment. Every day I would open it, look at it for a while, and then close my email. I had no idea what to say. My eventual solution was to disregard the picture altogether and focus on the subject line; I ended up with something along the lines of "33 weeks--you must be in the home stretch [of course I have no idea how many weeks an average pregnancy is supposed to last--9 months would indicate 36, but I thought she wasn't due until the end of July]! Hope you aren't too uncomfortable." I know I should have said something more like, "You look great--I never would have guessed that you were pregnant!" But, frankly, she didn't; she looked doughy and crabby, not exactly glowing.
The photo had inspired me to write something pregnancy- or parenting-related, but I never sat down to do it, and then it seemed like I was suddenly bombarded with all sorts of related media. So then I intended to write some sort of cohesive meditation that would bring all of these things I'd been reading and viewing together. But then I didn't do that either. And now that I have a few minutes in front of the computer, the eloquent essay that I was composing in my head for a week has completely fallen apart and I think that this may end up just being a snarky bullet list.
But let's try to follow the breadcrumbs in my brain, shall we?
Possibly even before the photo, I finally watched Juno, which I'd wanted to see since even before the Oscar buzz. It did not disappoint, although I could see where some of the critics were coming from, because her whole experience was pretty easy and sunny, and don't even get me started on his--very nice that his mom got to look down on her as a slut the whole time without realizing that her own offspring was the impregnator. But I have to admit that the whole time I was watching Juno's interactions with the prospective adoptive parents, I was secretly identifying with Jason Bateman's character, while simultaneously horrified with myself for relating to someone who turned out to be an irresponsible borderline pedophile. But to an extent I could see myself going along with the whole "yeah, of course we'll have a baby" thing and then being completely horrified when it actually happens. And of course, since M. Defarge has basically vetoed the adoption thing, my "oh, shit" moment would have to come when I was already pregnant.
So that was a little unsettling. Then I was monumentally bored one day at work and reading the New York Times online when I came across this article in their Sunday magazine about this phenomenon called "equally shared parenting." Which is basically exactly what it sounds like--that both parents split the whole shebang right down the middle--childcare, housework, career work, etc. The couples profiled in the article generally accomplished this by creating these flexible work schedules where they each worked 4 days a week or whatever. The article was accompanied by a week of a related blog where people responded to the article and the concept in a variety of ways, from "that sounds too much like keeping score" to "children need to be tethered to their mothers at all times" to "I like this concept and want to try it myself." All of which got me wondering (meaning, obsessing) about how it would work if we had a kid--eg, would I get stuck doing everything? Would M. Defarge do certain things and then be lauded for being such a great "helper"? Would he try to do his share and then get turned off when I went into type A mode because he wasn't doing it right?
The article referenced a book called Halving It All by a psychologist named Francine Deutsch, who had researched the issue (apparently 10 years ago, but whatever). So because I am a glutton for punishment, I requested it from the library--and then proceeded to read it in secret, because I didn't want to get into it with M. Defarge before I had done all my research, and because I had already aroused suspicion among my Goodreads friends when I put Anne Lamott's Operating Instructions on my to-read list, despite the fact that I love her writing (I also just finished reading a book about consumptives in a pre-WWI sanatorium, but no one posted any comments suspecting me of having TB). Anyway, I read the book furtively on the train and in the park at lunchtime and developed a gnawing stomachache reading about the disparity between the "equal sharers" and the "unequal couples" as I envisioned myself being stuck home with a screaming baby, scrubbing the floor, while M. Defarge achieved fame and fortune in his career and checked in occasionally to change a diaper and be heralded as a model father.
Then, once my brain was complete mush, I turned in that book for Lamott's, which is a chronicle of her first year as a single mother raising a son who, apparently, cried a hell of a lot. But in some ways the book was the perfect antidote for the whole NY Times thing, because for one thing reading about someone who raised a kid completely on her own (or at least without a live-in companion) put a few things in perspective and also because she is so damn funny and witty. The book begins with this paragraph:
I woke up with a start at 4:00 one morning and realized that I was very, very pregnant. Since I had conceived six months earlier, one might have thought that the news would have sunk in before then, and in many ways it had, but it was on that early morning in May that I first realized how severely pregnant I was. What tipped me off was that, lying on my side and needing to turn over, I found myself unable to move. My first thought was that I had had a stroke.
and just gets better from there.
So then I read some more of the comments from the blog that went with the NY Times article, the majority of which were written by seemingly sane and well-adjusted people who said, you know, we don't divided every single task right down the middle; we make an effort to do our share and pick up slack for each other and call out the other person when he or she is slacking.
And that calmed me down a little. Because even though I feel like I do the lion's share of the housework, it is also true that I work shorter hours and am not in school. And it is also true that there are certain things that M. Defarge does offer to do, but that I am too psychotic to let him (eg, laundry). And that we have always divided up the morning dog-walking based on whoever goes to work later. And that we don't even have a kid at this point.
So then I regained at least some of my equilibrium.
And then I read about this debacle (although now the story is being disputed by the local community). And now I have a whole new set of reasons for wondering if any of us should be adding to the population anyway.
The photo had inspired me to write something pregnancy- or parenting-related, but I never sat down to do it, and then it seemed like I was suddenly bombarded with all sorts of related media. So then I intended to write some sort of cohesive meditation that would bring all of these things I'd been reading and viewing together. But then I didn't do that either. And now that I have a few minutes in front of the computer, the eloquent essay that I was composing in my head for a week has completely fallen apart and I think that this may end up just being a snarky bullet list.
But let's try to follow the breadcrumbs in my brain, shall we?
Possibly even before the photo, I finally watched Juno, which I'd wanted to see since even before the Oscar buzz. It did not disappoint, although I could see where some of the critics were coming from, because her whole experience was pretty easy and sunny, and don't even get me started on his--very nice that his mom got to look down on her as a slut the whole time without realizing that her own offspring was the impregnator. But I have to admit that the whole time I was watching Juno's interactions with the prospective adoptive parents, I was secretly identifying with Jason Bateman's character, while simultaneously horrified with myself for relating to someone who turned out to be an irresponsible borderline pedophile. But to an extent I could see myself going along with the whole "yeah, of course we'll have a baby" thing and then being completely horrified when it actually happens. And of course, since M. Defarge has basically vetoed the adoption thing, my "oh, shit" moment would have to come when I was already pregnant.
So that was a little unsettling. Then I was monumentally bored one day at work and reading the New York Times online when I came across this article in their Sunday magazine about this phenomenon called "equally shared parenting." Which is basically exactly what it sounds like--that both parents split the whole shebang right down the middle--childcare, housework, career work, etc. The couples profiled in the article generally accomplished this by creating these flexible work schedules where they each worked 4 days a week or whatever. The article was accompanied by a week of a related blog where people responded to the article and the concept in a variety of ways, from "that sounds too much like keeping score" to "children need to be tethered to their mothers at all times" to "I like this concept and want to try it myself." All of which got me wondering (meaning, obsessing) about how it would work if we had a kid--eg, would I get stuck doing everything? Would M. Defarge do certain things and then be lauded for being such a great "helper"? Would he try to do his share and then get turned off when I went into type A mode because he wasn't doing it right?
The article referenced a book called Halving It All by a psychologist named Francine Deutsch, who had researched the issue (apparently 10 years ago, but whatever). So because I am a glutton for punishment, I requested it from the library--and then proceeded to read it in secret, because I didn't want to get into it with M. Defarge before I had done all my research, and because I had already aroused suspicion among my Goodreads friends when I put Anne Lamott's Operating Instructions on my to-read list, despite the fact that I love her writing (I also just finished reading a book about consumptives in a pre-WWI sanatorium, but no one posted any comments suspecting me of having TB). Anyway, I read the book furtively on the train and in the park at lunchtime and developed a gnawing stomachache reading about the disparity between the "equal sharers" and the "unequal couples" as I envisioned myself being stuck home with a screaming baby, scrubbing the floor, while M. Defarge achieved fame and fortune in his career and checked in occasionally to change a diaper and be heralded as a model father.
Then, once my brain was complete mush, I turned in that book for Lamott's, which is a chronicle of her first year as a single mother raising a son who, apparently, cried a hell of a lot. But in some ways the book was the perfect antidote for the whole NY Times thing, because for one thing reading about someone who raised a kid completely on her own (or at least without a live-in companion) put a few things in perspective and also because she is so damn funny and witty. The book begins with this paragraph:
I woke up with a start at 4:00 one morning and realized that I was very, very pregnant. Since I had conceived six months earlier, one might have thought that the news would have sunk in before then, and in many ways it had, but it was on that early morning in May that I first realized how severely pregnant I was. What tipped me off was that, lying on my side and needing to turn over, I found myself unable to move. My first thought was that I had had a stroke.
and just gets better from there.
So then I read some more of the comments from the blog that went with the NY Times article, the majority of which were written by seemingly sane and well-adjusted people who said, you know, we don't divided every single task right down the middle; we make an effort to do our share and pick up slack for each other and call out the other person when he or she is slacking.
And that calmed me down a little. Because even though I feel like I do the lion's share of the housework, it is also true that I work shorter hours and am not in school. And it is also true that there are certain things that M. Defarge does offer to do, but that I am too psychotic to let him (eg, laundry). And that we have always divided up the morning dog-walking based on whoever goes to work later. And that we don't even have a kid at this point.
So then I regained at least some of my equilibrium.
And then I read about this debacle (although now the story is being disputed by the local community). And now I have a whole new set of reasons for wondering if any of us should be adding to the population anyway.
posted by Madame Defarge at 7:07 PM
1 Comments:
How did you get in my head?
I had a dream last night, one that included a group of men(and I use that term lightly) I used to hang out with. Every one of them had already impregnated someone and reproduced, and one of them had the nerve to ask me what was keeping me. Now that I think about it, it almost has some kind of creepy Orwellian overtone to the whole thing - why haven't you converted? Why can't you just go along with the system? Everybody else is doing it. You're not getting any younger. I hate that one.
As I write this I have the windows open (it hasn't yet reached 90 today) and I can hear the neighbor's kids screaming and jumping on the enormous trampoline they have put in their too small backyard. I find the whole thing, well, annoying. I actually found myself happy the other day when M. Manette expressed the same sentiment.
I thought once I hit 30 I'd be ready, but it turns out that I'm even more confused than before. Every once in awhile I do have a maternal instinct, and think about how it would be to hold my own child in my arms, but it is fleeting at best and is immediately followed by all the scary thoughts of the reality. My friend has recently given birth (by C-section, lucky thing)and has confirmed the realities of the lack of sleep. I don't know if I could take it. She at least shares the same views on pregnancy as I do, that it is NOT a beautiful thing, and it's downright scary. She even dispises the idea of breastfeeding, although she's willing to give it a go for a month to see what the hype is about. It's been good to see her go through this to realize that if I wanted to, I suppose I could survive it, but the more pressing issue is - would I want to?
I, too, have been stressing about the division of labor around here. And woman's lot in life hasn't helped that at all. It pisses me off the responsibilty that woman has to shoulder for the pregnancy, and the delivery, and the early months after. I'm afraid i would fly off the handle at even the slightest slacking off from M. Manette. As I've been off completely from work the last two weeks, I have been obsessing about the housework lately, too, among other things. I get angry about being the sole cook, but as he pointed out - I do get home earlier, so it's only fair. And he does do a lot of other things, things I don't tend to see when I'm annoyed or angry. I think it annoys me though that when I have down time, i think about what I can do around the house. I make dinner and immediately afterward i am thinking about the dishes. He sits on his computer while I start to put things away. I think back to college when it was easier, the work load was somehow divided without requiring an argument. If I made dinner, she cleaned and vice versa. It seems only fair, and I shouldn't have to ask someone to step it up. They should be able to read my mind, shouldn't they? I don't like having to demand consideration. Even last night when going through a box of papers that have been sitting on the floor for months, i had to nag and put up with excessive whining to get him to organize the shit and put it away. It ended with "we never get to do anything fun around here." Surprisingly I burst out laughing. I laughed just like my dad would have. I'm so glad I did instead of screaming about childish behavior. Maybe there's hope for me yet.
All this time off has given me more time to obsess on other things as well. It's dangerous to be left alone with your thoughts for too long, let me tell you. I can't tell if I'm blowing things out of proportion because i'm giving them more attention than they're due, or if I'm finally allowing myself to think about things I've otherwised pushed to the back of my mind because i've been too overwhelmed with work. It's been boiling down to: am I crazy or just starting to realize the truth? I think that's why Gilbert's book hit home more than i anticipated it would.
I actually tried to broach the subject with M. Manette on the long drive back from Sausalito the other day. I expressed my concerns about whether having kids means your time to grow and change is over. He asked me what it was i still wanted to do, and I listed off every ambition and desire(no matter how fanciful) I've had in the last five years without taking a breath. He wasn't phased by my ranting at all; he didn't take his eyes off the road once, and just said matter of factly - why can't you still do those things? I couldn't decide if he was right, or just in denial as to the amount of work this endeavor would take.
I know he'd be willing to adopt if i felt i couldn't do the pregnancy thing (something he made clear to me when I was crying my eyes out on the couch last year during what started out as a relaxed discussion about the future), but I'm thinking more about the actual implications of a child. Perhaps there's some hope for M. Manette as well, since on the drive we talked about what we wanted, and after he said "children," he immediately followed it with, "course I don't know why. Maybe I should figure that out first." I don't know if it's bad that i felt relief after that. i figure if we're on the same page and grow together, we're fine; however, if one of us grows faster than the other, namely him, i could have a serious problem on my hands.
Do we cease to be ourselves after we have kids? Should all of our energy and attention be spent on our children and our dreams fall away until they're in college, when we're too old to do anything about them and have just given up? That seems so terribly unfair.
What seems even more unfair is that our friend at 33 weeks has probably never experienced any of these thoughts at all.
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