Birth Mother's Day

I gave you the moon and stars, and now I want some back.
Photo from Acanthus Jewelry Instagram.

At seven months pregnant with my second future kid, fourth pregnancy, I’m telling you it’s not fair. It’s not fair that he gets to be a daddy and doesn’t have to waddle with butt pain. He doesn’t have to give up eating raw fish, all tuna, and unpasteurized cheese. He doesn't have to go the doctor's office for monthly check-ups and the lab for countless blood draws and urine collections. It’s not fair that he can have that gin Bloody Mary I want, and the IPA I want, and the stout, and the glass of wine to help digest the Italian food, and the second glass of wine. It’s not fair that he can still squat and sneeze at the same time without peeing his pants. It’s not fair that once he does get that second kid, the icing on the cake of our family, the fulfillment of our deepest wish, he doesn’t have to experience the searing pain of a breastfeed latch. He doesn’t have to keep it to one beer. He doesn’t have to lose 20 pounds, maybe 30, maybe 40. He doesn’t have to be held hostage with every meal from my tender boobs. He doesn’t need to pump in airports and have TSA fondle his ice packs. 

You might be thinking, you don’t have to breastfeed. You don’t have to lose the weight. You can eat a little bit of chunk light tuna and have a few sips of wine. To which I say, just fuck off.

What could make this better is getting a Birth Mother’s Day. If you’ve birthed your kid, you should get the day after their birthday as a bonus Mother’s Day. The Mother’s Day we already celebrate is canceled out by Father’s Day, yet the father did far far far far less to bring this kid into the world. (Please swap “other mother” for “father” if that suits you.) Therefore, birth mamas deserve extra. I’ll have three total Mother Days per year. Let's make four the max per mom because I'm reasonable.

This is very comfortable.

We deserve these extra days in appreciation of carrying that kid in our body for 40 weeks, abstaining from so much, GETTING THE KID OUT, and then abstaining some more while attempting to heal with insufficient sleep. The kids don’t need to do anything special for us on Birth Mother’s Day (although they should on the standard Mother's Day because that's an appreciation of the ins and outs of mothering). We wanted those damn kids, no matter how hard the pregnancy became. The father though? This is his time to shine. He’s a daddy thanks to this effort, this insane sacrifice, and this is his yearly chance to say thank you for it. To remind me how I awed you that day. To tell me how lucky you are to have had ME carry and birth your kid. To tell me how honored you feel to experience the swelling pride and happiness of fatherhood, thanks to ME, your god damn goddess. Small gift required.

You might be thinking, but don’t you already have something extra special from being the mom? You have a greater bond with your kid! They probably even love you a teensy bit more. To which I say, show me the necklace.

Book bothered

Sometimes I read a book that makes me yearn for a book club.

I need to talk about Educated, by Tara Westover. I bought this for my mom last Christmas based on the rave reviews everywhere. My mom isn’t a gung-ho reader but I thought the semi-familiar subject matter (Difficult father? Check. Escape from a confining small town? Check.) and easy writing style might spark some interest. She read it, and then begged me to read it, as all good books should provoke one to beg. And now I beg you – have you read it? Can we talk? If so, please continue. If not, I warn you of spoilers and triggers galore ahead.

Books recently read and a couple on deck

We need to do something about Shawn. It sits horribly wrong with me that I, we, millions of us, have born witness to a man’s unchecked abuse. RIGHT NOW he is hurting his wife, or a niece. He is humiliating her, breaking her bones, scarring her psyche, making her fear for her life or for her next walk up the driveway. To think what his kids are witnessing. 

What what what can we do? We tell ourselves we can do nothing. We have no evidence that holds up. Heck, even the author, one of Shawn’s victims, crumbles with uncertainty. (Is she a survivor now? Has that term supplanted victim for her? It seems too soon to tell, education and all.)

How will we feel when he kills a woman? I’ll tell you. We’ll feel like we should have done something.

Imagine if this was sexual abuse instead of physical. We’d feel a bit more compelled to do something, no? But here comes the same excuse – we have no evidence!  However, like rape, domestic violence is a crime, even in Idaho. Oh the pain of knowing this is happening today, not just among the Westovers of Idaho but to so many others.

Maybe it’s epigenetic trauma that makes this material haunt me so closely. Maybe it’s the way it was conveyed. Whatever it is, I applaud Tara for getting it out there. I also want to shout at her so many times, SAY SOMETHING! STAND UP FOR YOURSELF! STAND UP FOR HER! But this memoir teaches us to check our know-it-all privilege. It helps us to understand brainwashing, which is a challenging task for someone whose father gave her a “Question Authority” bumper sticker when she was eleven. Ultimately, I will recommend this book to others but with trigger warnings (which I somehow did not receive). 

Tara, I’ll stand by your side if you want to take down Shawn somehow. I’ll be your backup. I’ll be your witness. Will he kill me? Not if I leave Idaho fast enough. I don’t think he has it in him to leave his zone of unchallenged terror. Cowards rarely do.