Thirty-one years ago, my daughter, Zoe, was born. I was ecstatic. But it wasn't just about the baby. I was almost as excited to mark the end of the most miserable nine months of my life -- or, as it will be known from this point forward, the Princess Pregnancy. (Kate is actually a duchess; there's just something about the word princess.)
In 1980, hyperemesis gravidarum was, at best, a royal pain in the ass. I had heard of morning sickness. At first, if anything, it was a relief, proof positive that there really was a baby in there. That was until morning sickness set in 24/7 throughout my entire pregnancy.
Which is why Zoe's birthday was cause for double celebration. No more throwing up, getting dehydrated and ending up in the hospital on IVs, unable to keep anything down. No more concerned friends suggesting burnt toast or vitamin B shots or sharing stories of starved women in concentration camps whose babies came out fine. No more doctors suggesting that perhaps I was ambivalent about giving up my freedom or, worse, a hypochondriac.
I had been thrilled about being pregnant. I may as well have had the plague. Forget glowing: just getting out of my ratty robe and into real clothes was a remarkable feat. Plus, I felt guilty that my husband's life had been reduced to running back and forth to the hospital while moonlighting, since I was too sick to work.
On the positive side, for me, pregnancy was a radicalizing event. For starters, there was my doctor, who had the gall to suggest that my round-the-clock sickness was a function of being ambivalent about motherhood. I told him I wanted a baby, couldn't wait to be a mother -- I just wanted my head out of the toilet, if that wasn't too much to ask.
Which led to Insult No. 2: Was I bulimic? Maybe I was symbolically trying to "throw up the baby." I assured him that I had never been bulimic, couldn't remember the last time I was nauseated, but was starting to feel like throwing up, especially when he referred me to a psychiatrist who grilled me on my relationship with my own mother, my feelings about femininity, and -- surprise! -- my sex life. Turned out his Ph.D. thesis was on the pathology of women who choose to be child-free. I finally understood what feminists referred to as their "rage stage."
But that was only one side of how my pregnancy was life-changing. Being as vain as the next girl, I cared a lot about how I looked. I had been a chubby teenager, but, now, each pound gained was a triumph. For the first time I could, and did, eat anything I wanted, which would have been great had I been able to keep it down. And then there were those matronly maternity clothes. We're talking Pre-Sweatpants. In 1980 the idea was to keep pregnancy literally under wraps, wearing smock tops and tent dresses, which several women I knew burned once their baby was born.
This is one issue Kate will not have to deal with. Think Demi Moore on the cover of Vanity Fair: a proud pregnant women sunning in a bikini, wearing her baby like a beautiful full moon.
