I keep thinking in terms of timetables: this could be our last dinner out, this could be the last time I do this before I am a mom. I bought some milk last week even though we didn’t really need any, just because the expiration date was past my due date. I couldn’t help thinking, “By the time this milk expires, I’ll be someone’s mother!” I can’t really get my head around it—I have tattoos and vast student loans and no husband; I can’t sew or cook and have never even ridden in a mini-van—how will this mothering in the new millennium look? Where are the role models?

My physical presentation has reached the point where strangers on the street can’t help themselves from offering words of advice, or sometimes sympathy. I have enjoyed almost all of the attention, even when it’s ridiculous and invasive. I know pregnant women are sometimes annoyed by having people touch their bellies, but so far, I love that too. After losing a baby in my sixth month last year, I am so happy finally to be at the point at which this pregnancy is tangible and public. I want everyone to touch my belly, bless it, acknowledge it…somehow let this baby know he has to show up because the whole proverbial *&%#@!! village is waiting for him.

This past weekend, the woman behind the counter at the office supply store insisted that what I need to do to get this baby moving is to take lots of long walks. (Never mind that it is so hot the asphalt on the interstate is buckling!) Then she asked, almost tauntingly, “Are you scared?” “Hell, yes!” I blurted. I must have looked a little freaked out, because she softened a little and told me it was going to be okay. I wanted to put my head on her shoulder and ask her how she knew, but someone behind me selfishly needed to buy highlighters so I went on my lonely way.

I read somewhere that women in their last month of pregnancy get a frightened look on their faces not unlike soldiers in foxholes: safe for now, but with a dawning realization that the only way out of the shit is through it. I get that now. I am afraid my body is going to turn inside out, ass-first, or that I won’t be big or healthy or strong enough to get this baby out. I worry that my lover will never be able to look at me naked again without picturing a sci-fi alien emerging from my flesh. I feel protective of my body, I worry about episiotomies and cesareans, and yet, I know that I will get through whatever is necessary.

They say I am having a baby boy. Suddenly, this seems scientifically impossible—I am such a femme, how can there be some…guy living inside me? Now I have to make a decision about circumcising a penis, and it isn’t even mine. The process of having to decide something so personal for someone else has served as a healthy dose of reality, as I know this is only one of many decisions we will make that will shape the future of this unknown man.

What should we feed him? When should he be allowed to walk to school alone? What should I tell him about why mommy and daddy aren’t married? How will I explain why there’s a monkey in the white house pretending to be the president? Actually, could someone explain that last one to me?

Raising a boy brings with it the unique responsibility of teaching feminism to a male ally. When my little brother was being born, the doctor looked at his head as it was crowning, and announced to my father, “What a pretty little girl!” My dad, understandably distracted, accepted this as proof of the doctor’s medical wisdom, thinking he must have some special way of determining the sex before the baby’s genitals emerged. Once the whole baby was out, it was clear the doctor had been mistaken. Later, as he was cradling his infant son in his arms, my dad asked the doctor why he had first thought the baby was a girl. “I always say that,” said the doctor, “That way, if it does turn out to be a girl, the parents aren’t disappointed.” Every time my father tells that story, he finishes it by looking off into the distance and saying, “I really, really wanted to punch that man.”

I guess I hope to raise a son who is non-violent in practice, but who will also understand the allure of punching idiotic doctors who say things that demean women. I also hope someday—if I survive not only the birth but the parenting—to have a daughter whom the world will welcome with the same amount of awe and joy with which I hope it will greet my son.

Suggested Links:
http://www.hipmama.com
http://www.momswhothink.com/

This column will use personal narratives to highlight aspects of sexuality development throughout the life span. The views reflected here are probably distorted by political cynicism and too much television, as are yours.

Ashley Sovereign has a long history of involvement in issues related to women's sexuality. A former rape crisis counselor and sex educator, she is a counseling psychology doctoral candidate who recently completed five years as director of counseling at a non-profit women's reproductive health clinic in Minneapolis. Her teaching and research interests include: life transitions, crisis intervention, ethics, personal values, grief and loss, and healthy sexuality.

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