26 weeks and 1 day
“I find myself fantasizing about being the only person in my skeleton, the only one in my skin. And I hear pregnancy has been a great and beautiful thing for some of you, but yeah… I can’t wait.”
Knowing laughter bubbled up after this unapologetic confession amidst a crowd of pregnant women. I don’t yet find myself fantasizing about being “done” with pregnancy. But as we near the third trimester, the sacred, biological, and physiological miracle that is happening in and to my body—with all the good, bad, weird, and surprising that entails—seems worth checking in about.
According to the bump, our 26-week babú1 is the size of a bunch of kale. Babylist compares them to a VHS-cassette of The Little Mermaid. They weigh a bit more (close to two pounds by now) and they move a lot more than kale or a VHS, even given an aphid infestation or a VCR in fast-forward mode. Babú’s very active when I wake up hungry (and after I eat, and when I lay down to sleep), so I called Lucas over yesterday morning and put his hand on my belly where he was most likely to feel them and told him not to be afraid to use some pressure. His face lit up. “There’s a kind of tap, tap. I can feel it!” Then, “Whew. I think I need to sit down.” As I show more and more, the pregnancy and imminent birth are becoming more and more real to Lucas, too. I, on the other hand, live this reality every minute of every day. It is happening in me and to me.
When I was preparing for ordination to pastoral ministry, there was talk among colleagues of different denominations about whether we believed ordination would bring about an “ontological change.” Was there a sense that through this ceremony and ritual, something essential about my being would be fundamentally, ontologically changed? Though I treated the process and the call with great respect (and still do), my sense was that all people are called. I would be blessed and equipped for ministry through my ordination, but there was nothing in that ceremony that would bestow something upon me that God had not already put there. And while I was surprised by how moving the blessing of my ordination was (I remember standing up after the entire congregation had participated in the laying on of hands, pouring their love and strength and blessing upon me; there was a tear dangling off the end of my nose, I felt almost reborn), I believe now what I did then about my ordination. It affirmed a call that was already there. It didn’t change something fundamental about me.
Pregnancy feels different. Both my physiology and my telos are changing, my being and my purpose. I am and will always be Lindsey, called to write and teach and listen and sing and bear witness to what is sacred and good in our beautiful and broken world. And I am literally being stretched from within to make way for this new forever role as a parent. With all that that entails mentally, emotionally, financially, physically, and spiritually.
Right now, the physical stretching is especially apparent. There are things that I expected: swollen ankles, nausea and fatigue (especially during the first trimester), growing breasts and belly, heartburn, weight gain. But also so many I didn’t. My nose ran so much during the first trimester – thank you growing mucous membranes. Leg cramps, carpal tunnel symptoms when I started sleeping on my side (I wake up when my arm’s gone numb and tingly and know it’s time to flip), skin changes (rash, blotches, tags, all the fun stuff), sciatica (not too bad, just a whisper of what it could be if I don’t keep swimming), itchy skin (it’s literally getting thinner!), random bleeding (hello thin skin and increased blood volume!), struggling bug moments when the shifting of my abdominal muscles to make room for babú makes movements that used to be simple suddenly surprisingly difficult, shortness of breath (hello increased weight and decreased diaphragmatic range as babú encroaches), hemorrhoids, hormones (most days I feel great, but then there are the moments I feel so sad I can barely breathe or rage flashes with fierce intensity and I wonder where these feelings are coming from, especially on really good days).
There is so much body stuff going on right now! And I welcome it and I’m even grateful for it. We are so excited for the ongoing healthy development of our pregnancy and our babú. And. And. Some of the ways that I am currently being stretched and changed will never revert to the “before” state. Some of it will leave me changed forever. With lots of support and prayer (and maybe a little fear and trembling), I am gratefully embracing this new forever.
But with each day of pregnancy I experience, I feel clearer and clearer that to force someone who doesn’t want to be pregnant to stay pregnant is inhumane. It’s not just nine months of a person’s life. It’s intense hormonal and physiological changes, sometimes with no backsies and sometimes with fatal consequences. No one should be forced into these forever changes. Not the 10-year-old rape victim, not the college student who may or may not have been drinking and may or may not have a family later in life, not the mother who knows another pregnancy could cause lethal uterine rupture, not the person who realizes that the structures of their life (social, emotional, financial, temporal) simply don’t offer enough support for this life-changing undertaking. In the Christian scriptures, “Yes” is only a meaningful answer to God when “No” is also a true and viable option. For so many people, a “no” to pregnancy may be their “yes” to God.
Especially here in the United States where maternal mortality rates are so abysmal, there are really good reasons to say “no” to pregnancy. Maternal mortality rates fell throughout the 20th century until the year before I was born, 1982. But they’ve basically been climbing ever since. We’re the worst in the industrialized world and rates are still climbing. And they’re orders of magnitude worse for women of color, especially black women. Personally, I know two women who suffered postpartum cardiomyopathy in the last six or seven years. One received the diagnosis and medication and lifestyle change coaching she needed to continue parenting her children. One was diagnosed after death, leaving her six-month-old and older children in the care of their grieving father. Babies are born every day. AND. To pretend that healthy and non-trauma inducing births just happen without policies in place to keep the most vulnerable among us safe and cared for, regardless of employment status or wealth or education or insurance or race is ignorant at best. There are models of care in other parts of the world that have much better outcomes for pregnant people and for babies. The U.S. could learn from them.
We are so excited about the healthy babe we’re growing. And we have so much support. A care team we trust. Family and friends who are already showing up with offers of presence and food and supplies. The prayer of our community. Material to educate ourselves. Classes to help us prepare. A doula to support us during the labor and birth itself, slow down decision making, and improve outcomes. And the time to pursue what we need. In addition to being “regular pregnant,” Lucas jokes that I’m “full-time pregnant.” I have interpreted this as “professionally pregnant.” These terms (and the research that has evoked them) are kind of silly, but I’ll be 40 (we hope) before this little one is earthside. Even as we trust that God’s got them and us, we’re not rolling the dice on things that are within our power to learn and prepare for and choose. Would that all regular pregnant people had the time, space, privilege, care, and support that we do!
Much love,
Lindsey
A quick digression about the etymology of “babú” (bah-BOO): early in pregnancy, it felt strange and clinical to call our embryo, and then fetus, just that (embryo or fetus), at least when talking to each other. There was something more intimate and lively happening for us that encompassed not just the biological processes happening in my body, but also our hopes and dreams and prayers and those of so many others. It also felt presumptuous and kind of too much to refer to this growing one as a “baby.” To my mind, babies are born. This one is unborn. Pre-born. Pre-breath. Completely dependent on me for life. So I started referring to them as “babú.” It turns out this is also an Indian noun used as a sign of respect towards men and, in some cultures, a term of endearment for a loved one. I didn’t know this etymology at the time (and we still don’t know the sex of our babú), but as a term of endearment, it feels right on.