16 weeks

Is it just an American thing, this obsession with babies and pregnancy? I have never thought of anything happening in my uterus as a community event, but apparently, my uterus has become a sort of Commons.

Of course, I am writing all about this experience, so I am inviting scrutiny, but I am also writing this mainly for me and simply to keep me writing. A secondary reason is because I would hope that sometimes I bring up things that other pregnant women will be able to relate to, if they were to stumble across these pages. It's not socially acceptable or expected to be less than saturated with joy due to pregnancy, and that is enough to make more than just pregnant-little-old me feel a bit alone in the world, I would guess.

Some people find it odd, for instance that I refer to what is inside me soley as a fetus (or McFetus) and refer to the future with words and phrases like "hopefully" and "if all goes as expected." This goes along with my intention not to find out the sex and not to decorate a room before the arrival of the eventual and hoped-for baby. Part of this is semantics, yes, in that I do not believe that the word "baby" actually defines what is in there (It can move, including the muscles in its face, but it's still making bones. If it's female, it's making eggs, and no matter which sex, its eyes are sensitive to light. It can get the hiccups, but its respiratory system is filled with liquid. It's about4-5 inches long and weighs less than three ounces. It's not a baby).

The other reason is simply pragmatic; a lot can happen between now and September. I am not a mother, because there is not a baby. I am a pregnant woman. If Pete and I were to start referring to ourselves as Mama and Papa, giving ourselves titles that we do not yet have, what does that mean if something bad were to happen? I don't have that identity until I have that baby.

It’s a strange dichotomy. This experience, at its core and especially while it is happening in me, should be all about me, but I don’t like attention and fussing. Never have. I don’t care for help; I don’t like solicitous behavior—even compliments make me uncomfortable. And yet, this is about me. It’s about what I want because if I am feeling stress or pressure being placed upon me from outside sources, it’s bad for my physiology and therefore bad for the fetus.

But instead, what I feel is an erasure of me in favor of the outcome of this experience: the baby that will hopefully result. I am being steamrolled by expectations and preparations for a future that barely includes me aside from my role as the incubator of a fetus and then the mother of a baby. I resent it. This pregnancy is happening in me and with me. It’s only happening to others via extension and even then, mainly just to Pete who has to deal with me all the time. He’s the one who helped create this after all.

The excitement that baffles me most is the selfish excitement that is not mitigated by the desires of the object of the excitement. But in this case, the object of the excitement is a five-inch long fetus that won’t be a person until next fall. My wishes are not taken into account. I am again erased.

I do not want fuss. In general, when I want help, I will ask for it. I don’t like assumptive or presumptive behavior that supposedly has “help” at its core. I find that sort of thing to actually be about the helper rather than the helpee. If it were truly meant as help or support, the wishes of the object would be first consulted and then observed. It’s like my experience is being hijacked by other people’s wish fulfillment.

The thing is, I am not a different person now. Aside from the fact that I have side effects from a biological process as well as a few emotional issues due to the aforementioned erasure, I have not changed in essentials. It's the external behaviors and perceptions that have changed; those swirling bits and pieces just outside the eye of the hurricane.