Unless two people in the same relationship are carrying a fetus at the same time, the expression “we are pregnant” is complete and absolute bullshit. It irks me on such a visceral level, my boobs cringe when I hear it.
Telling people you are pregnant is an earned badge. You don’t get to tattoo the Olympic rings on your body if you’ve never been in them. I mean, you could technically, but that just makes you a giant douchebag which is what you sound like when you say “We’re pregnant”.
And before the male ego police gets its briefs in a bunch, you can be a woman and sound like a total douche, too. Girl, please get off whatever train you’re on and realize that YOU are pregnant and no one else. Because getting pregnant and having kids is a process that starts way before conception, wrought with decisions and calculations for everyone involved; but much more so for the one who will carry the pregnancy.
So if you are so eager to say you’re pregnant, you only get to say it IF:
You’ve needed help picking up that darn potato chip you dropped 5 times because Lord knows you HAVE TO HAVE IT but your ribcage and baby belly refuse to make it easy for you.
Your ligaments have stretched to the limits of the universe and it feels like evil trolls inside your uterus are pricking you with hot nails.
The baby kicks you so hard, the plate you were balancing on your bump flies across the room (true story).
You have seriously considered wearing adult diapers to sleep after the umpteenth trip to the bathroom at 3am because the baby is practicing death-defying gymnastics on your bladder.
You have hugged your toilet bowl with the same desperation as a frat boy after a party. Except you had to go to a meeting right after. Probably with your boss, and a bunch of other office people who still don’t know you are preggers.
You’ve had to come up with ridiculous excuses to explain to that nosy co-worker why saltine crackers are a totally outstanding superfood and dietary supplement, and why coffee, which you used to drink by the gallon before, is now enemy numero uno of your new woke approach to nutrition.
You’ve come home after a long day at work craving a glass (probably a bottle, to be honest) of wine, but the baby shits all over that parade so you end up sniffing your spouse’s drink instead like it’s the best drug fix of all time.
You’ve sneezed and then peed a little (or more) because Lord knows your pelvic floor just can’t handle the pressure anymore.
Your feet and legs swelled up to triple their size because of water retention, heat, or whatever other weird shit is on rotation that day.
You’ve experienced devastating contractions non-stop for days but somehow you are not getting dilated enough and for-fucks-sake-goodness-gracious-just-make-it-stop-already.
You’ve listened to everyone ask you if you’ve tried all the suggestions they’ve made to speed up labor because, according to them, it’s “taking too long”.
Society at large has consistently asked you (not your husband) when you plan on having kids, because, you know, you’re a woman: your uterus and what you do with it defines whether or not you are a shitty person.
Your doctor, the minute you turn 30 years old, started asking you if you are thinking about reproducing. If so, you better start planning that shit soon. You’re 30! *gasp for dramatic effect*
Although two of you are having a child, it’s only your career that will suffer, in spite of living in a democratic, first-world country with outstanding and far-reaching government support for mothers and extended, paid maternity leave.
And again, you were the only one in your partnership who had to weigh the cost of not achieving your professional goals because choosing one inevitably means sacrificing the other on some level. And you felt guilty about it.
Your salary has suffered from the “motherhood penalty” (for a European perspective, see here). Your male partner, however, will actually receive better pay if he has children.
Your employment contract didn’t get renewed once your employer found out you’re pregnant.
You’ve had complete strangers come up to you and to say, you shouldn’t be drinking that double latte.
You have been told to stop dressing sexy. You’re pregnant now, you can’t be sexy and with child.
You’ve had to stand up on public transport because people won’t give up their seat for you, even though you are visibly pregnant and uncomfortable.
You pushed a watermelon-sized creature out of your vagina, or witnessed the doctor remove your internal organs to get baby out through a laceration in your stomach.
You get hit with post-partum depression and feel so incredibly alone, guilty and lost in feeling the way you do, in spite of how much you love your baby.
You didn’t bond right away with your child and people judged you harsher than a pedophile.
You have a hard time recognising yourself in the mirror. Your body is completely badass for pulling this off, but also unrecognisable and it takes so long to love it in its new shape.
If you can check off at least half of these, congratulations, you get to say you’re pregnant. No exceptions. Here, this is what you CAN say and should proclaim on a daily basis:
“My partner is a fucking beast. She puts up so much shit while being pregnant and she has managed to stay out of jail so far. She’s amazing. Pregnant women are amazing”. And then bring your preggo better half some cafecito y pastelitos, because, in the words of the sublime Ali Wong, “She’s busy making an eyeball over here”.
