Shit like this…

  Shit. Like. This. This is what Critter is up against. This is what I’m up against. This is what Mr. Forty is up against. This is what we have to fight against. This is what we have to undermine. This is what we have to stand up and say, “HELLO IS THIS THING ON? WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE YOU THINKING AND WHY ARE YOU THINKING THIS?” Mr. Forty moved to my town thank-you-very-much, and I still have my last name, and I’m going to have an epidural if I want one goddamnit, and we’re having a baby because we talked it over and under and through more than you can possibly imagine (and we still do talk about it and we will for the rest of our lives). If you married a woman because you were doing them a favor – you’re a dick and she’s an idiot.  And FYI, the average retainer for a divorce attorney is about $7500, so have that ready in your back pocket because you’ll sure as shit need it.  Of course you probably spent most of your money on a designer wedding gown, a diamond as big as the Ritz, and two white doves that shit on your flower girl when they flew frantically away from you in the best metaphor of what you had just done to yourselves and each other. Yeah, I’m probably a bit more sensitive to this kind of societal dreck because I proudly call myself a feminist and I’m trying to come to terms with what that means when I’m also thinking about how I’m going to discretely pump breast milk at work when I go back.  (So far I think I’m just going to shut my door and hang a stuffed cow from the doorknob in a fucked up version of dorm etiquette).  I’m also more sensitive to this propaganda because the premise is totally up its own ass. And on top of it all, the image is so blatantly wrong I can’t even begin… Let’s take a moment and look at the picture. I’ll wait. … … … What do you see? Pregnant lady. More pregnant lady. Lady with a baby. Very good. Now what else do you see? Come on, use your critical eye. I’ll tell you what you see – You see a white pregnant lady. You see a white, blonde pregnant lady. You see a white, blonde, thin pregnant lady. You see a white, blonde, thin pregnant lady with no stretch marks, mottled skin, cellulite.  You see a woman looking down, in servitude.   You see a construct. A perfected ideal of an imperfect biological process. Frankly, if you wanted to really make your point about how much women “sacrifice” for a man, you should have posted this picture: But don’t listen to me… it’s probably just...

Congratulations! Did you fart?

Mr. Forty posted a few days ago about the raft of shit I’ve been getting lately for being pregnant. At the time of his post I was filled with an overwhelming sense of “Hell yes!” and “That’s my huzband right there and I’m a lucky woman!”  I didn’t have anything really significant to add. I mentioned in my last post that I found myself at a business dinner with nothing more to contribute to the conversations than my pregnancy. Not that I didn’t try to talk about other things, it’s just those things morphed into “Well that will change,” or “You’ll feel differently in a few months,” or “Interesting strategic insight… so are you going to breastfeed?” This has been a pretty common theme in the 6 weeks since I’ve been out of the closet. It’s very strange. I don’t happen to be one of those women who subscribe to the societal belief that pregnancy is some form of magic. It’s biology. I had a lot of sex and it had the biological effect it was supposed to have in my lady parts. In fact, I always feel slightly uncomfortable when people say, “Congratulations!” As I often interpret this to mean, “Way to go on the fucking!” Depending on who is telling me congratulations, my perceived subtext can range from creepy to downright horrifying. Also, “Congratulations!” is a tough one from a societal point of view. I guess I am worthy of a “Congratulations!” because I (for a change) followed society’s rules: 1. I am married. Happily married in fact. (Although I’m sure from the outside there are those that worry that Mr. Forty and I didn’t wait very long – we were married in April of 2013). 2. I am older. This is a tough one from society’s standpoint – get knocked up too young, you’re an After School Special.  You’ll only get “Congratulations!” from other WIC and SNAP recipients and an MTV producer.  Get knocked up young, you’re wasting your college experience and earning potential. Get knocked up youngish, and people will assume you’re planning to have a whole gaggle of children (oh my poor friends who had one child at 30 and are berated for “not having more”).   Get knocked up old and there are a couple different kinds of “Congratulations!” in play – namely that you managed it in the first place and that you got their expectations for you in under the wire. 3. My career is happily in a place and I could be where I am for a very long time and be okay. I can afford this child. I’m more or less done climbing for now. I have the title I wanted, the salary I desired, the team I hoped to build, and the environment where I can make a difference. I’m good. The next level of promotion for me would be one I would have to think about long and hard. I’m not sure I want it right now. That’s a perfect time to have a baby from my point of view. Looking at all of that, I get a hearty “Congratulations!” from society. Which is totally unfair to all the other women who have children under different circumstances. But life isn’t fair. Teaching Critter that will be one of the hardest lessons I will have to manage. Unless of course he is a mutant and goes Republican or Libertarian on us and names his stuffed animal John Gault....