Return of the Blob

An accurate barometer of the state of a pregnant woman’s self image can be the movie titles they most identify with. For instance ceaselessly muttering ’Aliens.The Blob.Invasion of the body snatchers’ etc would indicate all is not well in self-esteem land. A pregnant woman’s self image grows even more fractured when contrasted with the ’best time in a woman’s life’, ’now you’ll be a complete woman’ type of rhetoric occasionally sprinkled on top of casual interaction like so much toxic confetti. It’s bad enough that pregnancy is a uniquely personal experience that cannot be vicariously experienced even by the New Man, do we really need a bunch of NOT PREGNANT people making us feel guilty for resenting this incredible change?

Perhaps I shouldn’t speak for every about to be mom when I say ’resenting’. Perhaps some women like the sudden change in lifestyle, the permanent booking on the roller coaster of emotion, the decreased mobility and increased girth. Me? I resent it. I resent going from agile, flexible love Goddess (if only in my own head) to Indus Valley Earth Mother body double. I resent going from "tongue like a horse whip" to "cries like a baby at the sight of an empty fridge". I resent having to replace a personal mantra of "I like my djinns with tonic" with one that goes "that surgeon general person said." These are all little things (all except the earth mother body double bit of course) but as women keep reminding men, it’s the little things that matter.

Maybe when I have a living, breathing being in my arms and it grips my little finger while simultaneously winking in the direction of hubby and chortling furiously, I’ll feel differently. For now, though, my overwhelming feeling towards said living, breathing being currently using my uterus as goalpost for kicking practice is one of disgruntled suspicion. This is it isn’t it? My life over as your begins?

The root of my resentment is the perception that one of the side effects of becoming a mother will be that my own personal goals will have to be sidelined. Whether that is an accurate or false perception is questionable, as is the assumption that my own personal goals are of any real worth (and I’ll just ignore the fact that I wasn’t pursuing my personal goals with any real zeal or urgency until it was suggested I wouldn’t be able to anymore), but dealing with this apparent threat to the actualization of my own selfish desire is proving to be a challenge I’m unable to face with my usual sense of invincibility.

The selfish desire in question would be to make a bigger mark on the world than its making on me. This, if you consider the fact that all human beings have to be potty trained, might just be the most basic human instinct of all. (Sharon ji was just crossing and uncrossing her legs to control her sphincter muscle). But why does it seem as if motherhood will be the end of individuality?

Pregnancy lends itself to introspection. Faced with being a parent, you place the MO of your own parents under intense scrutiny. For women, this includes really understanding for the first time how difficult it was for your mother to bring you into the world (and then how difficult it must have been to then resist the temptation to boot you right out of it). One of the sacrifices my mother made to be able to devote herself more fully to the task of raising three children was the early retirement of her artistic aspirations. After I was born, the only brush she touched was a carpet brush; the only canvas the sides of our Bata shoes. I used to wonder why she didn’t just go back to it when we had all grown up. Now that I understand children never really grow up (couldn’t have dealt with pregnancy without my mother) i wonder whether I will have to do the same.

This is a totally illogical, irrational fear. If I were the United Nations, I’d condemn it in the most categorical terms and push for an inquiry into its root causes, until of course the United States stopped me and replaced my head with a more pliable one, like a football or something. But then fear tends to be illogical and irrational. I know that I’m having one while she had three and that I have her and my in-laws while she was pretty much alone, but this silly fear just won’t go away. Does it have a name or a face?

It’s fear of the unknown, of a presence that is felt but not seen, of things that go bump in the night till you get up and drink some apple juice to make their hiccups go away. It’s the fear that you won’t lose those fifty pounds, that your husband won’t find you attractive as a tub of lard, that the realm of personal freedom will once again be something you read about rather than inhabit.

And this hydra of fear is one that is not easy to face and conquer. Not unless I figure out a way to cut off my head, insert it painlessly into my amniotic sac for a bit and reattach it afterwards with no discernible loss of brain function. Dealing with it is complicated further by our general silence about the emotional earthquakes caused by pregnancy. Faced with the obvious happiness of those around you at this development, it becomes difficult to vocalize what might be construed as ingratitude and selfishness. Yes I know some women would do anything to have children, yes I know children are a blessing; yes I know it’s good for my skin. But I also know what I feel, and what I feel as I head to the bathroom for the 29th time in as many minutes is very different from the idealized notions of motherhood so graciously shared with me by the NOT PREGNANT (evil rat like race swarming over the earth).

Mothers, as seen on TV and in print, are these soft, warm, cuddly beings in perpetual orbit around their offspring. Mothers are selfless souls who would do anything to protect and nourish their young. Mothers hold the key to heaven. Mothers are held in high esteem by God and rank as creators in their own right. Mothers walk around with a halo around their heads.

I don’t think I’m ready to fulfill any of those expectations, unless it be the soft, warm, cuddly thing one, and that’s only a side effect of motherhood as a biological function rather than a symbolic one. I certainly don’t see myself holding the key to heaven anytime soon, because that would probably result in my losing it and locking all deserving souls out. And the only halo I will ever wear will probably be made out of tinfoil and a little sticky thing.

There’s obviously only one solution for all this. I’m just going to have to tell my baby I’m its older sister. Its mother went to get some more chocolate ice cream and hasn’t been seen since.