highly offensive post, highly elitist blogger, don’t bother reading this

Sometimes I consider telling you that I have an anonymous guest poster who needs to get something off her chest but she can’t say it on her blog because she doesn’t want to seem like a snobby biznatchy c-word or doesn’t want her mom reading something she needed to type in order to get past whatever it was that was bothering her. I would definitely tell you that today.
But, I try to be honest, so I am going to tell you that you might be offended by this because I am a snobby biznatchy c-word from time to time about certain things.
But you already know that…

I stopped at Mimi Maternity at lunch today, to pick up a pregnant girl’s best friend for one of my best girls because she is newly pregnant and I can only imagine she needs all the help she can get with hiding the rigged pants buttons and to maybe get an iota of assistance in not prematurely feeling like a saggy draggy fat girl.

Please tell me it wasn’t just me who felt fatter and grosser and way more repulsive in the first trimester than I did the second. I didn’t want to leave the house, lest I offend the general public with my enormous bloated gut that surely made everyone gag.

Unnoticeabley pregnant is the worst kind of pregnant there is.

When I put my hand on the door of the maternity store a horrible feeling came rushing back so fast that I lost my breath. I gasped a bit and coughed so as to appear normal but it came off as pathetic, and the girl behind me asked if I was okay. She probably thought I was going to puke. She wasn’t far off.

When I found out I was pregnant, after I got over the initial shock and subsequent anger I was outright embarrassed. Girls like me aren’t supposed to get pregnant. Girls like me are supposed to do something with their lives. I was slated to do big things, to save the world, to make a goddamn difference somewhere. Not sit around and gestate like a schlep who didn’t know better. Like one of my clients. I didn’t want my friends to know I was going to have a baby, I didn’t want my co-workers to know, and I certainly didn’t want it getting out in my little network of people-more-successful-than-I that I had gathered.

I worked hard to get where I was headed to, and it seemed to be over before I could slide into the door I got my foot into.

I was married, which I guess is supposed to be important. I bought a house, but it wasn’t my REAL house. My real house was about a mile north of the one I bought. I had a job, but that was practice for something big too. I was sitting on a good-sized Board of Directors, but it was one of those oak Boards. I wanted solid mahogany. I was consulting with a few different people and agencies to develop evaluation tools and non-profit organizations and social policy and people were starting to know me. I could walk through City Hall, The City Hall in my Big American City and get a few nods from old white men.

I was the girl who looked down at the other girls who got pregnant. Getting pregnant was something that you shouldn’t do until you are a woman. A successful woman over the age of 30 with some sort of direction in life. Anyone else was surely failing at giving their child a real chance in the world. I felt/feel that being a mom in your twenties means missing out on experiencing your twenties as they are meant to be experienced. College, grad school, post-grad, networking, career building, earning a little bit of extra cash for traveling, shopping, eating, drinking, staying out late in big shiny places, hiding during lunch hours in little quiet places, reading everything you should have read in school, re-reading everything you did read. We are given 80 or so years on this earth for a reason, and that reason isn’t sitting around in faded stretchy Walmart clothes and spitting out kids and worrying about how you are going to feed those little fuckers before you are a third of the way through your life. I mean, go ahead and do what you want, but don’t be mad when your friends are having the time of their lives and you are stuck scrubbing shit out of your sofa.

I was ashamed because I viewed myself in the way that I view other girls who get pregnant before they accomplished something. Like a big stupid loser. Like someone who couldn’t do anything else but have sex and get pregnant because everything else requires an ounce of effort. I was ashamed because I was supposed to be smarter than that. Because I wasn’t raised to bring a baby into a house where there were stacks and stacks of student loan bills and car notes and a credit card balance. Babies were supposed to be brought into a house where the parents were absolutely prepared, and that meant the bills were paid and the salaries were high enough and the schooling was all done. I only have a Master’s Degree. That is like practically equal to a high school diploma these days or something. I can’t have the job I want with a Master’s Degree. I can’t even figure out what job I want with a Master’s Degree. I need at least two more years of schooling before I learn what I want to do. They don’t teach you to know what you want until at least your twentieth year of formal education.

There I was, at the top of my game at 28 years old and I go and get pregnant. I felt like a knocked up teenager. Like a welfare mom. Like everyone in town was going to pat me on the back, buy me a bag of cheap onesies, give me a fistful of Pampers coupons, and walk away while shaking their head.

I wasn’t ready. I was Ms. rather than Dr. Lora. (No I don’t go by Mrs. “Mrs.” sounds tacky and is a pathetic attempt at showing the world you have latched yourself to man. Do people still call themselves Mrs.’s? Maybe Republicans still do. Or Midwesterners. Who knows.) I still had two good years of piss and vinegar in my veins to get out there and get what I had coming my way. I didn’t even have anything published that wasn’t under the clearinghouse of my University and I really really wanted to have something published. There was work to be done and now it was going to stay undone. I decided to have Jake. I’m pro-choice but I am anti-abortion when you are in the situation I was in. Married smart girl homeowners are supposed to suck it up and give birth to the monster, no matter how they felt about getting pregnant.

Things certainly aren’t bad as a mom. I don’t do anything extra-curricular at work and I don’t volunteer anywhere because I think time with Jake is of utmost importance, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t wish I had the time to be a superstar in my community. I feel that my brain is wasted. My schooling is wasted. I don’t know anyone in local government anymore. All that can come back, I’m sure, in time. For now I’m stuck donating cash to worthy causes and writing letters to the suits and doing all I can from 9to5 to make this world a better place for when Jake is ready to step into it.

My time is not wasted, my energy is never wasted, and the job I have now at work is completely relevant to the job I have now at home. If I had to do it all over again, I would have waited until I was 30 to have Jake, but I would have to be guaranteed to have Jake. No other brat would do.

I often wonder if I am still bitter, still angry, still embarrassed at becoming a mom so soon and unexpectedly, and yes. I am. But maybe it was a good thing I got pregnant sooner rather than later because there would be a lot more to give up later and I might not have been able to handle that. I didn’t plan on having children (child) and I think I would have been happy with my life if I didn’t.

I’m sad I’m missing out on a big influential career and being a big voice for the masses and trudging through a few more years of schooling. That might be in the cards for me yet. Who knows.

I’m awfully glad I’m not missing out on Jake.

And I’m glad I’m not missing out on your kid, who you had by choice in your twenties. I love your kid. I wish you called more, emailed more, blogged more, stopped by more so we could do less missing and more kissing of each other’s children. I sure did miss you when I was out running around those ten years between 18 and 28. I thought of you all the time. It would have been a lot more fun if we were out there running around together but it’s okay this way too. We’ll catch up when all the kids are out of the house. We’ll be those old chicks on the cruiseships in the big straw hats and tummy-paneled bathing suits, holding comically pink drinks and lugging around giant woven totes full of books and snacks and pictures of our grandkids.

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