Talking While Pregnant

A Study in American Discourse

“Why, Madam, you look ready to pop!” is just one of the many sparkling witticisms expectant mothers adore.

I’ve taken up my pen this week because I’ve been feeling a little oppressed lately, and I think you all need to hear about it. My husband and I recently moved to a new city, far from our homeland. Thus, I see it as my wifely duty to “create social connections.” My handicap: being eight months pregnant. Lots of things change when you’re eight months pregnant, but I didn’t expect to become so incredibly averse to extended human contact. This sudden introversion, combined with a heightened sense of, for lack of a better term, B.S., has made me a delightful flower in the bouquet of any social function. It has also made me a sharp tool for satirical commentary. So let’s put this misanthropic tendency to use, shall we?  

When meeting new people, I am reminded of the asinine world of American “small talk.” First on the agenda, we establish Where We Live. Somehow everyone is surprised that I, a newcomer to the city, am still unfamiliar with the unofficial shorthand used to describe various neighborhoods (i.e., East Side, North Hills, Southwesterly Industrial Province) So when they toss out a term, I like to say “oh!” in a way that may imply familiarity with such a location. Unfortunately, no matter how hard I try, they can sense my confusion and will proceed to name various landmarks until they spot any gleam of recognition in my eyes. This can take anywhere from two to seven minutes. 

Next, the necessary segue into a discussion about my current State. There are many seamless options for reminding me that I am pregnant. Just make sure you follow the unspoken code: don’t look down at my bump, even once, before mentioning it. Keep very strong eye contact. Treat me like how you’d treat a person with a shriveled arm: we both know it’s there, but if you ignore it I will understand that you see me for Who I Am Deep Down. That being said, pregnancy is not a defect, and must therefore be mentioned. If we are in a buffet line at a church function, you have the golden opportunity to observe that I am “eating for two.” Clever! I laugh. Yes, I am eating for two, thank you! (What’s your excuse? Don’t see you skimping on the pulled pork, either.) Thank you for asking — I am due in September. Right around the corner. 

Here is where things get interesting. Option one: they ask me incredibly detailed questions about my birth plan, followed by a play-by-play of the most traumatic birth stories they have ever heard or experienced. I appreciate that they always check themselves by saying “I know you don’t want to hear this right now— I’m sure you’ll be fine!” This comforts me immensely. 

The other route of conversation involves the distinctly American question, “so what do you do?” A drunk rastafarian music producer once yelled at me for asking her this question outside a cafe in Spain. Over the months I have come to sympathize with her point of view. This question usually follows soon after I have been asked about my husband’s schooling, so it feels like there’s an imperative behind it. Everyone wants to make sure somebody is manning the financial ship. 

Somehow being asked “what do you do” is more uncomfortable than hearing about how your kid had to be vacuum-sucked out of the birth canal. What do I do? Would you really like to know? Most days, I awake after a night of tossing and turning, neither of which are easy skills when you are front-loaded with 20 pounds. I bid adieu to my husband, who goes off to his place of higher education. I manage to maneuver out of bed and down the stairs without the aid of a crane lift. I open all of the windows, praying that this time, I might have respite from the heat. I make myself breakfast, pop a Tums to control the unpleasant results of my son stomp-dancing on my intestines. I head to the couch and spend 30 minutes scrolling through Facebook marketplace to search for a cheap area rug that doesn’t look like it’s been peed on by a herd of corgis. Then, after sending a few hopeful messages to a woman selling antique lamps at a reduced price, I resist the urge to go back to bed by bingeing episodes of The Crown. It’s hard to be a royal, let me tell you!

Effie Shins-Fyve on an average afternoon.

Oh, you’re asking me how I fiscally contribute to my family and society? No, sir, I have no job. I just moved across the entire country and am giving birth in one month. I can tell you frankly that my husband and I are currently milking the teat of the federal government, if that makes you feel better. Does it make people uncomfortable when I look them in the eye and say, “no, no job! Just growing a child!” Absolutely. Yet I always say it. I always sort of regret it too, as I feel decades of women’s liberation propaganda bearing down on me like a freight train. I proceed to stutter on about my “music project” and my “freelance writing” until both of us realize that I am only useful insofar as I am in the process of providing the country with a future laborer. What a joy it is to live in this free land under a free market. I just feel so free.

Luckily, we have my husband’s exciting future career to talk about, and by that time he usually has swept in to rescue me. This is one of the many joys of marriage. That, and the fact that I’ve already got a built-in friend to talk to at parties. I guess new pals will have to wait! Perhaps someday I will be able to engage in regular conversation again without the evolutionary imperative of Fight or Flight running at full blast. For now, I will swipe my pregnancy card just as many times as I can. 

-ESF