True Confession: I have this regular running fantasy of being pregnant. Six months pregnant, to be exact. You know, the cute stage where the bump is full-grown, but before your face blows up and your neck looks like a cased sausage. It’s this fantasy where I’m basically the same size I am now, but I’ve got this cute little baby bump and people look at me like I’m walking with a gilded halo.
Sometimes I hold my phantom bump, and practice looking both exasperated and lavishly blessed to be carrying such a bundle of joy. The polite nod I will give to an awestruck passerby. The gentle smile I will carry on my lips as my (currently non-existent) husband proudly guides me down crowded New York City sidewalks with his firm hand.
And yet I know this isn’t really what pregnancy is like. My mom was pregnant just five years ago, and I watched in horror as she puked and gagged her way through nausea the first three months, and the last two where she looked like the aforementioned cased sausage. However there was this period around the 6 months mark where my mom was a beautiful freak show to behold. I mean, here was MY MOTHER, flesh of my flesh, parent to me and my two grown ass siblings, knocked up after a 19-year drought. Luckily the knockee was my father, but nevertheless it was just short of absurd to see her in this state.
Despite the ludicrousness she was beautiful. I have this image of my mother etched in my brain where she was standing in profile looking at herself in the bathroom mirror, head tilted just so in mild exhaustion. She was beautiful and magical… like a unicorn.
To be pristine-ly crystal clear, in no way, shape, or form do I even want a baby right now. I love kids, and I know I eventually want kids, but after a year of nanny servitude with my infant brother I realized this universal truth: children steal your youth. Blessed little rosy-checked robbers of irresponsibility, indiscretion, and wild times. Better to wait and give the little whippersnappers your hard-earned wisdom instead.
And yet despite all these awful truths, I’m still drawn to the idea of pregnancy. I don’t know who put out this great spin propaganda about pregnancy being all beautiful and easy and glamorous. Maybe Nicole Ritchie. It just seems like magic, and I want it. I don’t want the birth, don’t want the baby, don’t want the discomfort – but I do want the oh so cute maternity wear.
Is this how the biological clock starts? The sultry allure of a baby bump under a designer dress? The false promise that despite EVERYONE you know, you will have a “completely cute” pregnancy?
Exactly at what point does a biological clock go from a soft hum to a full on blare?