I would not have called myself a feminist before I had kids. I mean, I didn’t reject the idea either, I just didn’t think about it much. I thought Latin and philosophy and political science were sexier than women’s studies in university. (Yes, if you pick your major based on what is book-nerdishly sexy you run a significant risk of becoming a blogger.)
Mostly, though, being a girl had never held me back from anything. As a young woman born in Toronto, Canada in 1978, the idea that my sex would at all impact my career choices and trajectory (outside of professional athletics, say) was completely foreign to me. Globally, of course, I knew it was a different story. But for me? In my life? Sexual discrimination was a non-factor.
And then I became a mother.
No, first I got knocked up and freaked the hell out. Of course, I was happy and excited and all that stuff too. But beneath that glow of eager anticipation and seriously thick and shiny hair was the gut-wrenching apprehension that I was not in control anymore. My maternal imperative to provide a secure and stable environment for my baby was matched only by the increasingly suffocating realization that I might not be able to.
Don’t get me wrong, I was never in danger of becoming homeless or otherwise destitute. I had a husband and a strong family network to fall back on. But I, MYSELF, suddenly had doors slamming in my face everywhere I turned. Job mobility doesn’t exist while you’re pregnant; you cling to the one you have or get a new one quick-style before you start to show.
You’d be hard pressed (Sarah Palin and Marissa Mayer aside) to find a new job halfway through your pregnancy and even the job you have is on life support. You will either take a maternity leave and have your salary slashed at least in half in most cases or go back to work and instead spend half your pay on childcare or forego that silly childhood dream of a career and just stay home. I am not trying to belittle anyone’s choices. In fact, I’ve dabbled a bit in all those outcomes myself. My problem is that pregnancy made me feel like I had no choice.
All three times I have felt a bit trapped. I didn’t want to leave my husband, but what if I should want to all of a sudden? What if something happened? I simply couldn’t do it on my own. I was in a temporary state of forced dependence — on my husband, my parents, the welfare system … anyone but myself. It eased up by the time my baby was a few months to a year old. I regained a sense of control, began rediscovering an array of options.
But that first pregnancy (echoed by the second and third) was the first real inkling I had that my womanhood could hold me back.
This post on pregnancy and feminism was inspired by International Women’s Day. I think we’re good to keep talking about this stuff for more than one day, don’t you?
Did you feel the same sense of constraint and dependency during your pregnancies? Is this a commonly shared experience?