Bad Takes

Back when I was trying to have a baby on my own, I was astonished by the extent of support I received from my community. Almost nobody questioned my decision or autonomy to make it— and I was, and am, grateful.

But it's the "almost" that sticks out in memory, even though my social experience strikes me as far better than average. Getting told that I could definitely find a husband, or asked if I knew how expensive babies could be— well meant, but not helpful. I preferred the (many) people who suggested I could save on the sperm bank expense by just going out to a bar. They were mostly joking.

Presumably, the assumption behind any of these suggestions is that I haven't considered this carefully, assessed risk, evaluated possible alternative routes to motherhood.

I did in fact get married, got pregnant in a much more straightforward fashion, and also have a broader base of financial support. I'm happy about all of that. But it doesn't make the advice givers any more credible.

Mostly, it just makes me lucky. I did and do have confidence in my own abilities and resourcefulness. I can do hard things, and am comfortable discovering and finding solutions for my own limits. I learned a great deal about myself, my body, my community, and my mental health over the course of two years actively trying to conceive on my own (and in the year or so I spent researching and building my support base before that).

So it's funny, now, trying to process the "supposed to"s of pregnancy. All that fierce and well-earned independence, and I'm taking for granted a lot of the "rules" set for pregnant people based on often very little science.

I ordered a burger medium yesterday, even though I really wanted medium rare. The waiter told me medium rare was pretty pink inside and I remembered I'm pregnant and pregnant people don't eat raw meat. I'm pretty sure the possible danger is food poisoning. I have an iron stomach and good taste in eateries; I'm not actually concerned. But I ordered my burger overcooked anyway.

I know that a cup of coffee is fine and that the risk of fetal alcohol syndrome is nonexistent unless a pregnant person is consuming in quantity. Baby is in no danger from me. But I barely consume alcohol or caffeine anyway, so it costs me little to cut them out. I only vaguely want a sip of wine.

I enjoy dietary restriction challenges; I've been developing a caffeine-free chai recipe, testing things like chicory and roasted cacao nibs in place of black tea. So far it's unsatisfying, but I think I can make it good.

"Whatever works for you" is the current signal mothers give to each other to show they're not going to judge your choices. This is important to say; motherhood is hard.

Breastfeeding doesn't work for everybody. If there's a beverage that will make you feel more like yourself, you should probably have it. Lowered cortisol is probably more salubrious for a fetus than avoiding a small dose of your preferred libation anyway.

And yet— I know Japanese mothers eat sushi while pregnant, I adore raw fish, and I'm eating vegetarian sushi rolls anyway. What's that about?

The ridiculous part is how much this "common sense" (American) pregnancy advice is only half right anyway. I'm following all the rules, not because they are good, but because they are rules. Maybe it's guilt prevention. Maybe it's superstition.

I'm pretty sure I'd enjoy giving feminist lectures to strangers with unwanted opinions about my choices. But I suspect that if I didn't step over every crack in the pregnancy sidewalk and something went wrong, I'd blame myself. Because: who else's fault could it be?

I have an ultrasound today, and at some point between last ultrasound and this one, it occurred to me that these visits are not recreational. I don't have a medical appointment because the doctors want to show me my unborn baby's tiny face, the body beginning to thrash about, a heart beginning to beat. They are making sure that the heart is in fact beating, that it's growing, that limbs are all there.

A friend grilled me recently with surprising intensity about the choice not to screen for genetic anomalies. I'm not unaware of the challenges of a neurodivergent child. But these tests are expensive and riddled with false positives. And a true positive would represent, for me, angst but not new options. There are many ways to be a human. We will get what we get, and I will love my child. You have to do whatever works for you.

I'm not much of a worrier; I've been going to these appointments because I read somewhere that that's what's done. Because when I'm not feeling ill, I'm not sure I believe there really is a fetus growing— even now, with my body changing shape.

Robert has only been able to come to one ultrasound so far, at thirteen weeks. I would have liked to hold his hand, but his chair was just a little far away, our tech very efficient. It started so fast, and she catalogued the limbs methodically, screen on according to my assent.

Robert has a quiet face, and is verbally sweet only in guileless phrases that seem to slip out unsummoned. So I still don't know what he felt when he saw the face of our baby-to-be through my still-flat belly for the first time. But he sat close after, in the waiting room, poring over every line of the technical report.

He can't come today; he's in London, with a cricket match after work at the same hour. I'm in Washington, with my parents, who will get to see this glimpse of their first grandchild. It's an anatomy scan: everything present and accounted for? How is the brain developing?

The ultrasound gel is spurted warm onto my belly.

"Don't look," says the tech, because I've told her we're trying not to find out about the fetus's genitals.

People keep asking, but it's the least interesting thing about a child. I know it's just something you ask, but the asking is the reason I'm not going to find out: it's nobody's business but the baby's, and I don't like secrets.

In the absence of social pressure, I would look. Everything about the fetus inside me is interesting. But instead, I stare up at the ceiling, the pattern of LED lights mimicking stars.

Healthy. Wriggling. Eleven ounces and right on track. That's the important part.

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