Pregnancy

Knocked Up


No, not me. The movie. I didn’t see it when it was out in the theaters. Honestly it takes a hell of a lot to convince either Rob or I to actually expend the effort and waste the time to sit in a movie theater. Perhaps if he liked people more and I enjoyed sitting still for someone else’s story-telling. The only time I can sit still is when I am writing or reading. Otherwise, my mind is too full to entertain someone else’s ideas.

But BabyDaughter and I have been making fairly regular stops at the library in town since I discovered (after nearly a year) that I can use the county library card I have there too, and I saw the dvd and I thought it was worth a movie night.

Yes, I can watch movies at home without too much wandering of attention but it’s not a given. Plus I have the added incentive of my viewing pleasure being enhanced by the ability to curl up next to my husband in bed while we watch. You can’t snuggle horizontally in a movie theater, I don’t care how great the seats are – stadium seating and snuggling just don’t mix.

Knocked Up, if I remember correctly, got quite the rap for being another one of those films that glamorized the idea of pregnancy and keeping the baby as opposed to having an abortion, I guess. Personally, I don’t see either option as glamorous in the least, but I understand the vexation. The movie does make it seem that pregnancy can create a relationship where none existed or ultimately strengthen ties between two people. Frankly, a baby should never be saddled with that kind of baggage or responsibility. More people should disregard the notion of getting together or staying together for the sake of children, born or in the making. The movie was more than a bit fairy tale in that respect.

For me the movie brought back memories of being pregnant with BabyDaughter, mostly because it was mid- way through the pregnancy that her dad began to show signs of mental instability. Just one in a long list of early warning signs of his illness that we missed. I don’t have many fond memories of pregnancy, birth or the first year. It was overshadowed by odd and/or scary behavior that had me on the verge of walking out by the time the doctors agreed that “yes, there does appear to be something physically wrong with your husband”.

Some of the movie annoyed me too. There is a scene – several really – of the female character being “hormonal” and I complained to Rob that I hated movies that went all stereo-type like that about pregnant women. Hormonal does not mean “out of control bitch” and I insisted that I was never like that. But there were tense and even ugly moments when my late husband would do things that seemed so far out of character that I wondered who the hell I had married and perhaps I’d made a huge mistake. I don’t think my reactions were overly influenced by hormones though. I think most sane women would have been upset regardless.

Hindsight is a miserable and useless thing.

Perhaps another reason why I dislike movies (and television even moreso) is that it strives to entertain me with things that are not entertainment. Trauma. Disease. Death. Heartbreak. 

Considering the fullness of my life and my ability to keep myself quite occupied within its framework, I guess it is no wonder I am not much in need of what Hollywood seems to feel I need to vicariously experience more of.

It’s Not a Miracle


Thomas Beatie is a pregnant transgendered person who is legally recognized by the state of Oregon as a man. Ten years ago he underwent reassignment but decided to keep his female reproductive organs in case he ever wanted to have a child. Two years ago he stopped taking his testosterone and later with the help of his wife, underwent artificial insemination. According to his gynecologist, his pregnancy is a perfectly normal one. And why shouldn’t it be? He’s a woman. Genetically he is a female. No matter what a person does, the genes they are born with can’t be altered, and he is as XX as I am. So when he told Oprah that his being pregnant is a miracle, I have to respectfully disagree. It’s no more a miracle then any other women’s pregnancy regardless of the means or degree of difficulty, but it’s unsurprising that the press and pop culture media have jumped all over this farce. The world is so devoid of true miracles that it is willing to have one manufactured for it. Mr. Beatie is not technically a man but a woman, and women get pregnant. At best it’s a bit weird, but a miracle? I don’t think so.

Not Pregnant


My “monthly” (a term I thought was just another Canadian word but turned out to be my husband’s reluctance to use the word “period” in a non-punctuation manner ) didn’t arrive yesterday, and I spent a sleepless night worrying about the possibility of being pregnant at 43. It was not a silly worry. Pregnancy, as I remember it, is physically taxing, and I have been running on fumes for quite a while. There is also the added degree of difficulty that my age presents. I remember being quite put out with my OB-GYN for referring to my age as a negative when I was pregnant with my almost five year old daughter. I thought, and felt, that at 37 I was in the best shape I had been in my whole life. I think that had my late husband not gotten ill, I would have considered that pregnancy, and even the first six months of my daughter’s life, a challenging but not overly taxing life event that could have been repeated, God willing. In light of the actual chain of events however, I am not as keen on anything to do with the creation of new life beyond the initial fun stuff .

Rob and I had talked about having children of our own early in our relationship. True, we are middle-aged by social standards (Methuselah-Like by medical ones), but the fact  remains that we are both still in ”working condition”. It would have been foolish of us to ignore the issue though in a way we ended up doing just that anyway. He was concerned that I be sure I didn’t want any more children. His own were in their twenties, and while he was committed to the idea of my daughter, he was reluctant to start from scratch. But I had already put the idea of another child to rest. I truly had. I have no interest whatsoever in going through another pregnancy or experiencing childbirth and those mind-numbingly exhausting first months of a newborn’s life. I had quite unexpectedly ended up one of those militant nursing mothers who let their children self-wean and having only just gotten my daughter to give up “nursery” and sleep on her own, I selfishly wanted my body back.  I assured Rob I didn’t want another child.

But, for two people who were looking forward to someday, before they were too old, being on their child-free own, we sure didn’t take many preventative steps to ensure this. I occasionally wondered about it. Even pointed it out, though I hardly needed to as he was as aware of the contradiction between words and deed as I. There was an ambivalence on both our parts about the whole issue. Perhaps we were hoping that fate would decide the whole thing for us. I guess it nearly did.

Although I kept my fears to myself last evening, a sleepless night is a bit harder to cover up. So when I finally ‘fessed up after lunch today and followed that up with the news that all was well, I was a bit surprised to hear Rob confess to a bit of disappoint. He wondered if I wasn’t disappointed to and I admitted to the tiniest of regret but it is a bit more than that. Like him, I wish that we could have a baby together. Blondish and bright blue-eyed. Just like his dad. And I won’t say it is a silly dream, but it isn’t one that the universe is likely to allow us and we both know that. We have our girls. We have each other. We have a  pretty darn good today and tomorrow to enjoy, and a future to look forward to together. I am happy with what we have.