The good news: come September, if all goes well, we will be having another baby.
The bad news: to get from here to there, I have to be pregnant. And pregnancy is extremely unpleasant.
The first time, this fact took me by complete surprise. I was raised by a tree-hugging feminist blessed with easy pregnancies and insultingly easy births. The books I read were all books like Our Bodies, Ourselves. The women in my life who weren't hippies were worse: stoics. And the hippies and the stoics were all big, fat liars.
They had their reasons. They were trying to counter the equally spurious lies they had been told about the danger and medical nature of pregnancy: the need for doctors and drugs and the impossibility of birthing without Modern Science; or how clean, modern formula was better than icky, messy breast milk. But lies are lies, well intentioned or not. So, as a public service, I will debunk them to save others my astonished disillusionment.
Lie: Women's bodies were built to carry and birth children. You were made for this. It's completely natural.
Truth: We don't have big baby-shaped spaces in our abdomens waiting to be filled, nor does the baby just stick out in front. As babies grow, they push your organs into places they don't belong. Then, babies add injury to insult by kicking your re-located kidneys. Does that sound natural to you?
Lie: Pregnancy is one of the most awesome, empowering times of a woman's life. She is deeply connected to other women through the Great Mother in all of us: empowered, powerful. Her empowered powerfulness is awesome in its majestic powerosity.
Truth: While dry heaves do indeed feel powerful, do not confuse this with actual power. Quick: you're a mugger. Which victim do you choose? The confident, unencumbered woman walking briskly to her car in sturdy, well-laced sneakers? Or the slow moving, dim-witted (women's brains literally shrink during pregnancy—I am not making this up) waddler with unsteady, swollen ankles wearing flip-flops? Yeah. I thought so. And pregnancy certainly doesn't make you feel connected to other women. You loathe them along with all of the rest of humanity, which seems to have devoted itself to dispensing unwelcome advice and turning up the thermostat when the room is too damned hot already.
Lie: It's only the Western mindset that makes you believe labor has to be excruciating. Natural childbirth is really a deeply moving and spiritual experience that affirms every woman's strength and inner warrioress. Some women prefer to dance during labor. Others sing. With proper focus, pain may barely enter into the equation. My mother once told me that "[labor] pain is a societal construction."
Truth: There is a good chance that your societal construction will last for 18 hours, during which time you will not only refrain from dancing and singing, but you may grunt, growl, bellow and shriek: "I don't wanna ride the wave!" into your startled midwife's face. You will probably crap on strangers. You just may accept drugs. And after all that, if you're like me, you might have a C-section anyway.
But here's the cool part: all the Earthmomma pregnancy books and advice focus so much on pregnancy and childbirth—then there's a yawning silence about what emotions to expect afterwards. My mother's generation was sick to death of being told that only the love of children would make them feel whole and that a woman should strive for nothing else in this world.
So I'll tell you what might come next: two years later, you may be driving down the street, not thinking about anything in particular but the errands you have to run. You may suddenly realize you've been singing the same name in your mind over and over again: "Arie, Arie, Arie, Arie," and your heart is threatening to again relocate your kidneys. You may come home and ask your spouse: "What's the most beautiful name in the world?" and he may answer, without hesitation: "Arie."
Later, as you watch your son's intent expression in discovering that with enough concentration he can pour water from one cup to another while only spilling half of it, you might think: "Who cares about my kidneys? After all, I've got two of them. I think he would make a terrific big brother."
And then you just might start all over again, even knowing this time what's in store for you. Joyously, perhaps. Maybe even with a tiny sense of wonder.
Haddayr Copley-Woods is a writer and graphic designer who lives and works in Minneapolis's Powderhorn Park neighborhood.
