Expectations of the Expecting

(blog post written on January 20, the day before Miss Cheapist went into labor…) 

Happy New Year!  For months Miss Cheapist has been preoccupied with matters of lesser literary significance.  But as they taught in high school, it’s important to “write from the heart,” so, she will ‘fess up and find a launching point from the truth.   Readers, Miss Cheapist is actually married, (now call her Ms. Cheapist), and expecting a baby (gasp)!  While she has experienced an unexpected popularity on account of this new identity and enjoys her new hetero-normative status immensely, it still seemed too predictable to share online the travails of another expectant 30-something woman living in Brooklyn proper.   Moreover, she feared that any insight she had about pregnancy would be overshadowed once she had to give birth and take care of a baby, and she hesitated to offer smug commentary before the “hard stuff” began.   But as she enters her 41^st week of pregnancy, it seems necessary to reflect upon the many expectations held by the Expectant.  She can’t help but wonder, how much is too much?  When does a post-modern celebration of fertility and desire for children quickly decline into self-absorption (and sometimes self-pity) and unrealistic ideals that can never be fulfilled?   In effect, are women cheapening themselves when they decrease their expectations, or are they simply putting things in proper perspective?  

In Ms. Cheapist’s experience, the expectant mother encounters many different narratives as she approaches her delivery date.  One school of thought in particular emphasizes that there is a “natural” and fulfilling childbirth ideal that mothers-to-be can strive for with the assistance of a conscientious partner and/or other practitioners outside of the medical industrial complex.  Those most fervent are the ‘regretful;’ mothers who lament the “horrible” experience of their first deliveries, speaking of hard, fast labors, rushed with Pitocin, numbed with an inevitable epidural, sometimes culminating in a C-section that robs them of the true connection they could gain with their baby through their vaginal walls.  For their following children, they enlist the aid of prenatal yogis, doulas and mid-wives to help them achieve that optimum birth experience.   At the center of this ethos is the mother herself, her needs and body are a temple to be preserved, and a baby who must be sheltered from a cold, assessment-driven, surgical, and financially-motivated world.   Miss Cheapist found most of it valid, at times, a bit didactic and alarmist, but not completely offensive.  She even liked the notion that for once, she could shed her class guilt and exist at the center of the universe, connected to other women who also chose to “bring life into this world,” and receive special treatment for it.

All these fantasies and polemics came to a screeching halt when she spoke to her own mother, who possessed the mentality that childbirth was a thing to endure, mostly alone, and was primarily for the purpose of delivering a healthy baby.   Sensing her daughter’s mounting self-obsession, Mother Cheapist commented dryly, “You know, people are dying in the world too,” and proceeded to list the many tragic losses that occurred in 2008, making special note of the struggles of the elderly who she felt a special obligation to care for, instead of a pregnant daughter.   Why would you have any special needs, Mother Cheapist wondered, when you, are the luckiest person on earth to be expecting a child?  Post-partum support?  You will be so happy to have little bambini, you won’t need anyone!   As an immigrant, Mother Cheapist  lacked the support of her own extended family when she gave birth to Ms Cheapist, just recently arrived to a new country, her husband passed out from the drama of the experience, leaving her to labor on her own, her only ally being her trusted (male) doctor.   With this notch on her belt, it was hard for her to understand all the attention that a woman needed for something that was supposed to be relatively “natural” and routine.   Moreover, she did not hesitate to assign extra responsibility to the mother.  Miscarriage was attributed to over-activity.  Episiotomy was necessary to avoid deforming a child’s head and brain through forceps or suction.  C-section?  Unquestionably the safest way to get a baby out and nothing to fear!   Who cares if you can get cut?   A resilient woman had the natural resources to be sewn up and heal; however, the baby was too vulnerable to withstand anything.  And another “martyr mother” archetype is born! 

To all this, Ms. Cheapist brattily responded, “I really don’t care!”  If her feelings were diminished, then she could invalidate the experiences of others.  But when the sting of rejection that comes when contradicted by those we respect diminished,  Ms. Cheapist came to a realization.  Her own mother really struggled with this idea of expectation and had found her own way around it.   It seemed that if she learned to expect nothing, then she would never be disappointed.  Without disappointment, one would not experience defeat.  It was her mother’s rationale and faith in her own ability to persevere that allowed her to survive through difficult times, and in its own right, offered her feelings of empowerment.    Although she spoke of things more crassly and with less romance than those in the other camp, in effect, the idea that pain, emotional and physical, was worth the joy of having children, rang consistently between the two schools of thought.   In effect, it is true that our expectations about childbirth are shaped by culture, and we all make a decision to take a risk…expect the most, or prepare yourself for something else.  Miss Cheapist would love to conserve her expectations, but given the excess and desires that make up her own cultural milieu, it may be easier said than done.