A Letter to My Best Friend, On Finding Out She’s Pregnant
Yes, motherhood can be a private cataclysm, but I know you’ll be okay
I tried to get you a gift today but everything was too stupid. I wanted to buy you something that would embarrass you and playfully tie you to the motherhood-industrial complex — an association I know you dread — while also conveying the unwieldy tenderness I already feel toward your embryo. I ended up in an Etsy slum, poring over page after page of tragicomic trifles: mugs that say “Bumpin’ ain’t easy” in that awful curlicue mom font, the one that adorns tote bags and oversized planners. A mug with a picture of an avocado that reads “Don’t worry, you’re the good kind of fat.” His and hers cups: his a giant frat-party-style red Solo cup that says “Drinking for 3” and hers bearing a gold and sparkly “9 months sober.” Most revolve around alcohol — “I’ve waited 9 months for this,” reads a stemless wine glass; “I’d like to think wine misses me too,” says a T shirt. There are also already assembled “care packages,” wicker boxes containing cheaply labeled spray bottles so you can dwell these long months amid aromatherapeutic mists made in strangers’ basements.
All of these objects herald pregnancy as a kind of removal from normalcy, from humanity, from time. They seem to declare a pairing of motherhood and…
