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Week 22
Pregnant Women Belong to the World!
Men are funny. Those with kids of their own still look me in the eye—they have seen their wives’ figures revolutionize and return to normal in a year. Those without look me in the belly. They glance at their watches and ask me when I’m due, clearly shocked at the metamorphosis that is my body. Others on the street, who may have been inclined to whistle something lascivious, cackle instead: “When are the twins due?” I am not that big, yet somehow, being pregnant entitles everyone to express a point of view about my physique.
Then there’s the no-boundary subset who like to touch. They ask if I mind, sort of, with hands already en route to my midriff. I instinctively try to suck it in, as if I were on the beach, but nothing happens. They seem pleased and amazed that such a little person can endure such a large middle. Then they turn purple and walk away.
Then there’s my husband, who repeatedly tells me I look terrific, adorable even, and hasn’t had sex with me in six months. I reminded him what fun it could be, without any birth control, to go crazy like the old days. I warned him that sooner than he thought, I’d be uninterested, unwilling, or unavailable. First he said he assumed I wouldn’t be in the mood. (“Are you kidding,” I exploded. “I haven’t been this horny since high school.”) Then he said he figured I was so tired at night. (“I am, so that simply means you have to start earlier.”) Then my body-sized pillow always came between us. (“Plenty of room on the floor for that, or us, come to think of it.”) And so, as happens from time to time, we share a sexless relationship. The truth is, sex hasn’t been the same since my first pregnancy, which culminated in one night of lovemaking before the baby was born and one eight months after. At times that absence means everything and at times it’s a huge relief. These days, with a full-time job, a full-time 5-year-old, and a full-time marriage, sex seems like one more thing to have to do before I drift off to sleep in front of the TV.
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And then, there’s my son, who kisses my belly good morning, snuggles with it at night, and loves its weekly growth. Who asks uninhibited questions, such as, “How does the baby fit in there?” and “How do you know the baby won’t be born dead?” I shudder at that one; we all worry, deep down, that the baby will be born dead. As soon as Henry shares his fears my imagination spins out of control: holding a lifeless infant, sharing with Henry the news of a stillborn and watching him suffer, planning a funeral. I can barely choke back the tears over what I know won’t happen. Despite my attempts to reassure him (and myself) he remains unconvinced. He bargains with the baby: “Please don’t be born dead, I’ll be a really great big brother for you” and with me, “Promise he’ll be not dead when he comes out so I can snuggle with him, OK?” With all my heart and faith, I promise.
Then I lie awake for hours, hands glued to my spectacle of a belly, waiting for fetal movement to remind me that whatever is going on in there is still alive.
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