The lure of the heteronorm

With our recent news I silently vowed that these pages would not become a single-note wedding-and-baby theme, but, if I am honest, I am finding it difficult to think of much else about which I may write.  Work dominates my daily life and the dogs my leisure much as ever, but I place the same thematic restrictions on them.  Thus it is that I must admit defeat and turn my narratorial hand to the topics du jour, the author as mother-and-bride-to-be.

There is a public health system ready to induct parents-to-be and it is one of which I do not mind being a part.  It is a pleasure to interact with people who work in health when my basic condition is wellness and theirs something like professional excitement.  I note this in particular right now, when my union work brings me into contact with people for whom working life has become intolerable in some respect.  The people assigned to my pregnancy are people who demonstrably love their jobs, which is a contrasting experience for me (and one about which my unionist’s mind would like to ask some probing questions).

My ability to interact easily (thus far) with the system is made possible, I think, by a number of things.  One is something like a combination of class privilege and education.  I’m used to asking people direct questions, to giving voice to my emotions in a reasonable manner, to articulating fears without being overwhelmed by them.  I’m able to remember, in many circumstances, what’s said to me.  If I were seventeen, scared and on my own it would not be so.  I’m also able to pay for some services for which one would otherwise have to wait.  Systemic wheels turn easily I think for middle-class people.

I am humbled by my good fortune in missing out on so many of the dreadful symptoms that others experience with pregnancy, even to the extent that I wonder if something is wrong, whether, in fact, the heart of the bean is no longer beating, so basically-alright do I feel.  There is heartburn, but not worse than when I had referred pain from gallstones.  There is continual fatigue, but not worse than the fatigue that comes with depression.  There is a quietness of mind because my body is no longer wholly in the service of the work I do at the university.  It belongs, now, to someone else who will always have first call on it.  I am aware as I type this that I have no physical idea, at least, of what this will really mean.

I marvel that my fertility has worked at all, that none of the listable obstacles of age, size and PCOS worked against us, that it was enough just to behave predictably and gain a predictable outcome.  There is a tendency, I sometimes think, among intellectuals and people in the arts to think of ourselves as special, exceptional, not subject to the same physical rules as others.  Given all the ways in which our bodies turn against us, wear out, work partially or not at all, this feels like a moment in time to celebrate.

We have managed to find a midwife, who endeared herself to me by laughing at the mad things I said when I babbled to her on the phone: my suggestion, for example, that as first child and grandchild this baby would surely be Jesus or Hitler.  Now that those abstract roles–midwife, sonographer, specialist–are occupied by people, this feels like a real enterprise, less intimidating for no longer being hypothetical.  I am, for the moment, still myself.  This is a relief.

The immediacy, the here-and-nowness of pregnancy has made getting wedding planning done far easier than when it was equal parts party and philosophical inquiry.  Now that my course is physically set, more or less, I feel entitled to my bridal role in a way that I did not before.  This week I have confirmed catering, found a celebrant, passed a morning with my brideswomen and our dressmaker, sorted and addressed the invitations which the señor and I together designed and generally embraced my dictator-administrator role with an enjoyment I have thus far reserved.

The choice of celebrant was made easy by the fact that I recognised among the various lists of names the owner of this fellow, who is litter brother to my Millie.  (You can see one of Millie’s other litter brothers at about the same age on the right with his sister here.)  Briefly my dream of a world in which all positions of power are controlled by people with Norwich Terriers seemed to be finding fruit.

The choice of dressmaker was made easy both by proximity and the remarkable quality of her work.  We have fabrics and styles confirmed for Sienna (also here known as Nanette), A-Lee and me, and now must wait upon a quote.  I have been amazed at the straightforward path of this process and, once again, my ability to communicate my wishes in ways that people can understand.  Despite my claims here, I may even be tempted by the world of fascinators.  My friends characterise me as the most flexible and accommodating of brides, perhaps excessively so.  I fear that my bridal worst in the planning may be reserved for the señor.

Tagged as: pregnancy, wedding