Pregnancy fascinates me. It has all the elements of great fiction: In the opening, something has changed: She is pregnant. Ups and downs follow: joyful anticipation, morning sickness, picking out a name, daydreaming about what the baby will look like, emergency room trips with break-through bleeding, baby showers, Braxton Hicks contractions, the beginning of labor. Pain mixed with euphoria, fear, and suspense. Will the baby be all right? Will the mother survive? And then the happy ending. Or not. Either way, it’s a heck of a story.
In her book The Mask of Motherhood, Susan Maushart compares pregnancy and childbirth to the Hero’s Journey, the basic plot that literature teachers insist lies underneath every classic tale. Like a knight on a mission, the mother travels into a strange land on a quest. There is no turning back, and once the journey is completed, her life will be changed forever.
Childbirth is the ultimate rite of passage, Maushart says.
And I missed it. But reading about pregnancy and childbirth, at least now, when it’s too late for me, is not all too different from following the story of a team climbing Mount Everest, a couple crossing the Atlantic in a canoe, or that guy who sawed his own hand off when he got trapped alone on a mountain-climbing expedition. It’s fascinating. I want to know about every cramp and scrape. I want to read about how they were starving, how they carried on despite injuries, and how they hallucinated and thought they saw angels. Yeah, yeah, tell me more. Let me share their joy when they reached the top of the mountain or the sandy shore or when the rescuers came and he knew he was going to live. Tell me about how miraculous it felt to finally see and hold the baby that had been growing in the mother’s belly all these months.
But at this point in my life, I don’t want to actually DO IT. Of course I want the happy ending, but I’m not about to climb a mountain, row across the Atlantic or have a baby. Let’s see, nine months of being sick, fat, and out of whack–and wait, no caffeine?–followed by being torn inside out while expelling a little person who will need constant attention for the next 18 years. I’m just too old for all that. Sometimes taking care of my dog is too much.
Obviously the trick is to have children early in life, before you really understand what you’re getting into. Just like they send 18-year-olds off to war. If they were in their 40s or 50s, they might refuse to go. Hey, I might get killed, it’s 120 degrees in the Middle East, and I’m too busy doing other stuff. Maybe in a way, that’s why some of our partners who are already in their 40s hesitate to have babies with us. They see how hard it will be, especially if they’ve done it before.
I think what I feel bad about now is that almost everyone else took that baby-making hero’s journey, and I didn’t. Every day is another reunion of the I-made-a-baby club. “See, here he is. I made a life. You made a, what? A book, a quilt, a pie, a PhD? Yeah, but I made a person. My grave will say ‘beloved mother.’ Yours will just have dates.”
Good point. Even if the moms complain that their babies have turned into bratty teenagers who argue and slam the door in their faces or adults who forget to send them a card on Mother’s Day, there’s that underlying shared experience that I will never share. I didn’t climb the mountain, didn’t cross the ocean, didn’t slice off my hand to save my own life. I have no stretch marks, no episiotomy scars, and no child.
We women still have a lot in common. We can talk about work, PMS, clothes, aging parents, food, houses, etc., but sooner or later, they’ll start talking about Cub Scouts or swim team or school clothes, and all I can contribute is, well, nothing. As they make plans for play dates and sleepovers, I wander off to talk to the childless friend who has dogs or the old lady whose kids are all grown up and moved to Minnesota or the guy watching football on TV.
It’s a gigantic sorority for which I will never qualify, any more than I belong with the mountain climbers or ocean rowers. So I have to pursue other quests, take other journeys. That’s not so terrible, not from the perspective of later life. Perhaps if we’re not having babies, it’s because we’re meant to do something else. Or we’re meant to embark on the pregnancy journey later. There’s no reason you can’t pursue more than one quest in a lifetime.
If you never become a mother or father, what might your mission be?
3 thoughts on “Motherhood–the Hero’s Journey I Didn’t Take”
I gotta say I absolutely detest the term “hero’s journey” for someone who is able to get pregnant. Being a biological mother (or a father) does not equate to heroism. There are lots of asshole parents out there – mine included – that certainly are not heroes. That “I made a person” bullshit out there is repulsive to me – they were LUCKY to have a body that cooperated when sperm came into it – they didn’t DO anything beyond have sex. It’s not like a person building a home or painting art. It goes back to the whole BS about being a parent is “the hardest job in the world” and equating the simple act of procreation to brain surgery. It also terrifies and sickens me that in this day and age, parenthood equals motherhood, and the father’s role is incredibly minimized, as if they are not going on a journey, as if they have no accountability, as if their role means nothing, as if their life is also not changed forever.
By the way I would rather die than have had children with my alcoholic ex-husband in my 20s, not to mention the fact that I was not prepared, emotionally or financially, to have a baby. As a 43 year old woman I am prepared, with a husband who is as well, fighting infertility for years, and don’t think that I should have done it earlier.
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Whoa, a little anger there, Eco. Thank you for countering my Pollyanna post with a little reality. I hope you get your baby soon.
I have to agree with Eco — I, too, don’t like the glorification of pregnant and postpartum women just because their bodies cooperated.