the (little) devil in the details

In Praise of
The Second Nine Months by Vicki Glembocki

At about 5 months along in my own pregnancy, I read The Second Nine Months with a bit of trepidation but with great recommendation from a friend of the author’s who insisted that I would enjoy it. I did. The trepidation had come not from worrying that it would be too negative or sarcastic, or whiny and insufferable as “Operating Instructions,” (the voice of which smacks of bitterness from not having a partner with whom to venture into parenthood among other meanderings about drugs and religious hooey) but out of a fear of my own feelings. I get annoyed at the neediness of the dog, how will I ever be a mother? It is the unabashed, unapologetic look at self doubt that makes The Second Nine Months a success – not in delivering us a new trend in baby-and-pregnancy-related books (though it will likely result in a string of copycats).

I have a brutally honest friend who announced early in her first pregnancy that she thought the whole thing was gross – including the idea of having an infant – and while at the time I confused her portrayal of motherhood as a bit cold and unemotional, what I missed in the statement was the very emotion in it, the questions in herself she’s willing to face, and the strength to say, “it’s not complicated, or it is, but the fact that I’m straightforward with myself about it is not.” She’s right, it’s gross. Not admitting it is more gross. Not being able to speak the truth can literally make one sick and further – for what I’d like to think is the urbane woman – makes us slaves to the marketing empire that is salivating for us to drop our precious load on the economy, oddly, making us “consumers” while really we are producers.

Pregnancy makes you do weird things, like steal fruit from business breakfast buffets and google “why men find pregnant women so hot.” It makes you fierce and wilting a the same time. It conjures up all sorts of strange nightmares that progress with the pregnancy, of deformed babies and a deformed self image, coupled with a growing realization that while it may all be worth it in the end, the poopy parts might also have to be as good as it gets. It’s also a vibrant, pulsating time when you feel like there’s a beam of light on you wherever you go, a fecund image of life, family, sex and of loving a parasite. It’s confusing.

What I take most from Second Nine Months is that I know that deep, irrational love, the kind I feel for the first time with my future spouse and father of my child, and what I expect to feel for my child, comes with the capability to hate, a dark repose and broiling anger for the whole mess, the whole lot, and anyone that would dare step in my way as I couple with it. The balance between the two makes for a complicated woman, a light and darkness that defines us all, and a worthwhile life.

Thank you, Vicki. I will almost certainly give it a second read. If I have time. Which I have a feeling I will not. But I’ll want to.

PS
The one thing I would change if I could in the story? Wouldda sent that email and then FIRED her ass.
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