"Here, pull over here!" I roared at my husband as we approached a gas station. Only an hour had passed since our last stop but my bladder could care less. I jumped, well actually I struggled to pull myself out of the car. It was a delicate process. First I had to attain some leverage by angling my body out the door while grabbing hold of the seat back and dashboard. Then with a few forceful heaves I could make it into a standing position.
Between the weight of the baby hanging from my front and the weight of my increasingly large rear end, you would think that my body would reach a balance. As I took my first staggering steps out of the car any one observing this spectacle would quickly see that balance was not a characteristic I held. Step by step, I waddled across the hot asphalt covered parking lot of the gas station to the dingy, side bathroom. I was not looking forward to this.
Rounding the corner of the gas station, I was disheartened to see a line of half a dozen women in front of the restroom. Their perspiration soaked hairlines and shifting stances told me they had
been waiting there for a while.
A woman, my mom's age, at the front of the line waved me to the front.
"Oh honey, here. You go ahead."
"Are you sure? I'm all right," I replied awkwardly. This had never happened to me before.
As I looked down the line of women, they all shook their heads, encouraging me to go first.
"We've been there," A woman said with a knowing smile. "You need to go more than we do."
This was really my first experience as a publicly acknowledged pregnant woman. Up until this point, depending on my clothing choice, I was in that awkward stage where people were not sure if I was pregnant or just chunky around the middle.
Now, my pregnancy, my body was part of a larger public experience. People, both male and female, acknowledged my state and I am amazed at the openness they have shown.
This has been most evident with women. Women that I have just met or barely know will tell me intimate details about their birth experiences. I have never been a part of a group of women that so openly discuss their vaginas and uteruses. It took some getting used to. Now it does not surprise me to have women unknown to me walk up to me and describe their labor pains, episiotomies, and breast feeding experiences. In fact I relish these experiences as part of some larger female collective.
During the school year, a fellow teacher shared story after story with me about her pregnancy. We hadn't been particularly close, in fact I hardly knew her. She began checking in with me daily and I really enjoyed this new relationship. I wonder now, if I hadn't been pregnant, would we have become friends? She shared her stories of a tough pregnancy including heartburn, high blood pressure, and weekly ultrasounds.
One day in the teacher's lounge before school started she asked me if I needed a breast pump. I hadn't even thought of it. I'd never even seen a breast pump before.
"Ah... Ya, I guess. That would be great," I stammered.
She began a vivid demonstration of the how the breast pump worked and what it was like. She was loud and highly animated and not at all shy about belting out the directions for attaching the nursing pump to each nipple. She even demonstrated with an imaginary pump over her blouse. I was looking around embarrassed to be having this vivid discussion in such a public place. Teachers and aides were walking in and out of the room making copies, putting their lunches in the refrigerator, and checking their mail boxes.
"Sometimes, if you take the pump off too early the milk just comes out and will shoot right across the room." She demonstrated this by pointing from her breast in the direction the milk would shoot. I could hardly believe it. I had a hard time digesting that my body would soon be experiencing this abundance of fluids. At times uncomfortable, I value these frank discussions. How else would I know what I was in for?
Grocery shopping has become a new adventure. Now I only shop while pushing a cart, that is ever since one of the women stocking shelves shared with me the dangers I could be inflicting on my body by lugging around a basket that you carried in your hands.
"Oh, honey! You know you really should get used to using a cart," she advised me while I was looking at the shampoo selections. "Really, let me go get you one." She was gone before I could protest or thank her for her thoughtfulness.
"You know I just couldn't help it. You could really hurt your back. Or strain yourself," she said as she returned with a cart and carefully loaded my groceries into it. She was so sincere. I thanked her and moved on.
After waiting in line, I carefully unloaded my cart onto the conveyer belt that fed the groceries into the hands of the cashier. I watched as each item was scanned and accounted for. Before I could reach for the paper bags to start packing, I was shocked to see the cashier reach for a bag and actually begin packing my groceries for me, a rarity in the natural foods stores.
In the parking lot a man approached me and asked if he could take my cart. I assumed he was going to use it. I looked back and noticed that he didn't use it but simply put it away for me. He just wanted to save me from having to walk across the parking lot. After years of shopping at the same natural foods store, it is now a different experience for me as a pregnant woman.
In addition to these experiences with strangers friends that I have known for years try to protect me from environmental hazards and dangers. I actually have people who offer to come over and scrub my bathroom walls or paint my bedroom. I'm no longer surprised to have friends block me from picking something up and lift it themselves. They apologize and pat my belly when they use profanity around me, as if my 34 week old fetus can understand them. They form a human cocoon around me, impervious to harmful substances and I love them for it.
People show that they care in different ways. While some people show their concern by packing my groceries or telling me birth stories others resort to criticism. I have gotten used to the caring, heartfelt concern of others, but the ongoing public scrutiny of my life is unwelcome and often hurtful. I get the evil eye from people when a six pack of beer is seen in my shopping cart (for my husband, of course!). Loved family members who were so supportive in the beginning question our decisions about diapering, bottle feeding, housing, transportation, and the list goes on.
On Mother's Day, my mother-in-law announced that she had heard a new study about breast feeding on the news. She proudly announced to everyone that babies who are breast fed have a higher I.Q. level than those who are bottle fed. My sister-in-law happily agreed, having raised her two children without a bottle. I was astounded. They all knew that after six weeks of maternity leave my baby would indeed be bottle fed part of the time. Did she mean to say that we were bound to have a less than brilliant child? Was this a personal attack? What did she mean? I, of course, took it as a direct encroachment on my choices for raising my baby.
Off-handed comments like this have led me to listen to advice and "research" with special protective filters. I will do what I believe is the right thing. The input comes from all directions, and I have realized that I am not just carrying my child but their grandchild, niece/nephew, cousin, or great-grandchild and I better get it right.
The shared moments with other women, the public concern for myself and my unborn baby, the criticisms, all have shaped this incredibly unique experience for me as a pregnant woman. Had I not been pregnant, I would not have come to know the many layers of this stage in my life as a woman, a pregnant woman, a mom.
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