I think it is a damn conspiracy. And I think God’s male. All powerful and all testosterone too.
I figured this out early in my life but I think the only way to see how it all falls into the puzzle of life is to look at a pregnant woman.
OK, big big disclaimer: I am not pregnant. I know there are people reading this who know me and who think that I would write something and allude to myself.
No. I am a lot more transparent than that. But back to the topic.
I reason this because I am practically surrounded by pregnant women. I am at the age when women HAVE to get pregnant. Their clock is ticking.
We’re in our 30s for heavens’ sakes. I am 31.
We’re at that stage in life where we either are married and hoping… or ain’t married but hoping like hell for a miracle – a miracle in the shape of an eligible bachelor who doesn’t look androgynous or make you look bad in the cosmetics department. For me, I am married but I don’t think I am hoping for any progeny. Then again, I consider myself a bit strange.
But well-meaning pals (who are moms) often pat me in a patronising sort of way and say things like, “Oh, wait till you have a baby. You won’t say things like that.”
Yes I will. I even know that my other half will be a better parent than I, so convinced that I am not made out to be a mother. Even if I were one, I think I’d be so laidback and so inept that my kids will be running everywhere but home!
Then again, I am at that weird age where all my friends are either first-time mommies or veteran moms.
But everyone of them never liked being pregnant. What’s all this about having glossy hair and beautiful skin? Most of them look like bloated whales. And their aches and pains read like the yellow pages. Gas, achy knees, constipation, fear of labour, fear of being a mom, fear of everything or nearly everything. Eating and eating and eating and putting on weight and worrying that the pounds won’t shed after baby’s arrived.
Ah, you see. The reality of birth and moms and babies.
The picture is often romanticised in the media. The expectant mom looks and feels one hundred per cent good. Sweet maternity dresses (has anyone looked at how costly these frilly pink dresses are?), body-boosting supplements, husband gets all misty-eyed. Everyone’s breathing in happiness for the couple and helpful advice is dispensed all around.
Hah. Warm and fuzzy it is not. It’s tiring work, being pregnant. It is ingrained into women that we should feel warm and fuzzy when we have this being growing and taking shape in our bellies. We ought to embrace motherhood with panache.
My best friend who is 18-weeks pregnant with her first child is pragmatic. She wonders if she’ll lose the weight she puts on. She wonders if she’ll have an easy labour. She wonders if she will ever be the same again.
I think everyone’s lives changes when one has a baby. If you’re a parent, you need to make some sacrifices. For one, act like a parent. Two, stop saying or doing things which will be picked up by your children. Three, never say never.
But I can tell you, it’s a conspiracy that being pregnant is some ‘beautiful’ experience. It isn’t really but women are force-fed this ideal so everyone who doesn’t enjoy it will feel like a freak or alien. The same goes for women who don’t want to have children.
Sigh…are we really free when we can’t even be masters of our own bodies?