How to Be a (Sober) Pregnant Woman in America
“Having been alive as a woman for several decades in the United States, I was not shocked by the control being exerted on women’s bodies.”
While I can’t be certain that my child was conceived on a particular evening, I have a pretty good guess. One evening I was out at a Manhattan bar, being treated to double shot after double shot of tequila from a new friend. I remember the night well—though I was swerving down the sidewalk the entire way home from the subway, I never once blacked out. I got home, went upstairs to vomit in the toilet, then demanded that my husband fuck me on the bathroom floor.
. As an adult, I am responsible for the decisions I make. I demanded that my husband fuck me in a drunken state, and I accept and embrace the consequential parenthood that follows that decision. But ultimately, I realize, I have very little say on where this trip is taking me. Labor will bring the beginning of more uncertainties—uncertainties that may last a lifetime, as I get to know this individual who currently resides inside of me, as I watch him become his own adult and make his own choices about what he puts in his body. I’m sure that, sometimes, I’ll be watching with a cocktail in my hand.
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“My former home office, with its glorious door separating it from our bedroom, is now our son’s domain.”
“It is a bewildering and lonely thing to be so attached to another human and also feel so adrift and so alone.”
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A woman living alone has heard every story about the woman living alone. We constantly negotiate the knowledge of our vulnerability, both real and amplified by stories we’re told.
It felt as though I had been evicted from my own body, and it had been trashed in my absence. My resentment was as precise as any recipe.