From Here to Autonomy

Pregnancy Journal Entry #1: Unintended insults by H-band

Really I shouldn't complain--he's been unbelievably supportive. But there are a few zingers:

--Wow, look at that happy trail!

--Linea negra what? No I'm pretty sure that's a happy trail.

--I'll just assume that was one of the "mood swings" they mentioned in the book.

--I thought you started losing hair AFTER pregnancy.

--It's OK, Sweetie. We'll work it off together.

--No really, let ME make the meals when she starts eating.

--I'm not trying to make you feel bad; I'm sure that having gas is perfectly normal. I'm just amazed there's room for so much air in your tummy when you already have a baby in there.

--I'm just enjoying them now, while I have them.

Mother's guilt begins: Contemplating third trimester travel

A few weeks ago I went to my monthly appointment with my midwife, a gal I've moved heaven and earth (translation: moved to a more expensive insurance plan) to keep. Every few weeks, as I get more and more uncovered lab invoices and anticipate the biggie to come--the hospital bill--I remind myself that I chose this situation. I chose this insurance plan because it includes in its network the hospital where my midwife works, and I really, really like my midwife. She's been in the midwifery business for years, she came very well recommended, and when we met I said to myself--SHE'S the one.

So then, why can I not take her advice?

My monthly checkup was about 90 percent complete--baby's heartbeat is fine, my growth is normal, my pee is normal--when H-band decides to chime in with The Question. The question I'd answered for myself a long time ago, but obviously not to his satisfaction:

"You know, Jory's got a blogging conference in New York in early August she's planning on going to. She's been traveling a lot lately, and this would be her last trip, but I just wonder if it's a good idea."

Midwife asks: "How many weeks will you be?"

"Thirty four," H-band says.

"Thirty three," I correct him, "entering my thirty fourth."

Our midwife doesn't even take a second to think it over, "Oh well, you're not going."

"I'm not?"

"Oh no, not at thirty four weeks."

I throw out my defensive measure--the one I'd been resting on."My airline cut-off is thirty six weeks!"

"Airlines don't know what's best for you," she says launching into a very well-meaning discussion about how it makes perfect sense that I would still continue to think like a business person, since it's how I've derived my identity for so long, and how difficult it can be to start thinking like a mom. But starting now, it was time to think differently, make different decisions.

I think to myself, of course I will, but after the conference.

Mentally I cross off a business trip to Chicago and my high school reunion, which would take place the two weeks before my conference. These are the sacrifices I must make as a mom to be. But no. Not my conference.

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Women's work?

Part of my experimentation with my new neighborhood involved trying a new place for a mani-pedi. This didn't come with a small amount of apprehension; a good mani-pedi place is hard to find.

I got comfortable in my chair, settling into the warm pool of water at my feet. An Asian man--not older than 35--lifted my right hand.

"What shape?"

"Short and square," I replied.

"This color on your hands and feet?" he asked, holding up the bottle of deep red that I had picked out when I walked in.

"Please."

I watched this man study my cuticles and start trimming away at my nails. This was most certainly a first for me--having a man give me a mani-pedi. I've seen more men come to salons to receive services, but never had I seen a man giving them before.

I noticed my judgements: Can this guy do a good job? Will he bungle the polish? I watched him work, when normally I would sit back and zone out.

But why would a man who's trained to give manicures do a bad job? This incident made me think about work, and more specifically, women's work versus men's work. What kind belongs to whom anymore?

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I hand H-band a piece of notebook paper with a list of tasks.

"For the week," I say to him, dubious that he would internalize my requests.

"Yep, thanks."

"What are you doing today?"

"Got some work out back, some shopping, and a call at lunchtime," he says.

I'm uneasy with his answer, "But what about the list? When will you get to the list?"

I wonder if, since leaving his company, he'll be efficient with his time, or productive. When we both worked full-time we divided tasks accordingly: He did household tasks like the dishes and most of the cooking. I paid the bills and planned things like travel and dinner parties. I gravitated toward things in the future; he handled things as they came up.  Now he was taking on everything at home: the immediate, the planned, and, when the baby comes, the primary caregiving.

I remind myself that he's good at this. I come home, and he's made dinner. I know that with our daughter he will do what comes naturally and keep her safe, fed, and loved. But I can't help myself: I plan.

"When will you call the insurance people?" I ask. "Will you hang the pictures today?" "Who are you meeting with today?" I want to make sure he really wants to do this. And I have to ensure he's structured, that he's in movement, that he still thinks of his future.

I need to watch him work because I question his instincts in this realm, even when they are more highly honed than my own.