CarmenA pregnant pause in my professional life
October 11th 2008 17:15
Week 38 of the journey, and I feel like I’ve become a bit of an airhead. Losing my purse and only realising it when I’m standing at the checkout with a hundred dollars worth of packed groceries and 12 people queueing behind me. Not picking up on obvious humour (a friend of mine in London mentioned in a recent email that she and her Swedish boyfriend are engaged, and since many of her family live in India, the only logical place to get married is Iran. Iran! I replied excitedly – brilliant idea!) Etcetera.
But even beyond bog-standard pregnant brain behaviour, when I meet new people – and the majority of my new acquaintances are pregnant – they all want to know what I do and whether I’m still doing it. I haven’t been doing it for months now. I’m “between careers”, which is an even worse and far vaguer place to be than “between jobs”.
I used to be a technical writer. This is a bit of a blanket term for someone who prepares documentation of some sort, for some apparent purpose, in one of many different roles and settings, not all of which are as awful as they sound. People tend to recoil when I tell them what I do (did). “So you write those shitty instruction manuals that none of us can understand?” is the usual reaction. Looking at the instructions for the steamer I purchased this week, I can understand the negativity toward these instruction writers (though I’ve never met someone who writes instruction leaflets for actual *things* that you buy at the shop). A quick example from the steamer instructions:
Spirit handicap? Does this mean moody pricks? Or heathens?
Anyway, back to the point. I’m redefining myself as we speak. I’m on the cusp of reinventing myself and re-entering the world as a new woman. I’m like Madonna. Except I’m not really. I’m not actively pursuing a new career, and I can’t blather on about my day at the office with the other girls, so this leaves me to blather on about the only thing that’s consuming my daily life right now – being pregnant.
I must be very careful when I’m talking to my old friends, but I’ve had the opportunity to chat to loads of fellow whales just lately and I have to say, it’s liberating being able to discuss in great detail the merits of perineal massage, what that prostaglandin stuff they use for inducing labour actually is (I was informed in the pool on Thursday night that it’s made from pig sperm – I am not even willing to google this yet just in case it’s true), how much width is acceptable between cot mattress and cot, which TOG rating is ideal for the baby’s sleeping bag, how to deal with the family pet’s inevitable feelings of displacement and jealousy. And so on and and so on and so on.
I know I’ve become boring – I do, but I can’t shut myself up.
Being pregnant is like getting a membership card to some exclusive little club that allows you to talk - with fellow members only - about your reproductive system at great length and admit to doing really stupid, vain or socially unacceptable things. A friend of mine was going for a planned caesarean a few years ago and told me she’d had her hair done the previous day and then barely slept the previous night trying to preserve the just-stepped-out-of-the-salon look. At the time I thought she was actually mad, but now the realisation is setting in that those post-birth photos can travel a long way in email-land. I know this because last week I saw my friend L’s ex-husband’s friend’s wife beaming proudly from my laptop screen, looking very blonde and very serene and very groomed. Never mind the baby, who just looked like a baby wrapped up in a blanket (a lovely one of course). This was a photo of Amanda looking bloody amazing, shortly after giving birth to her first child. And she’s not a celebrity, so we can’t even put it down to stylists and airbrushing.
Without the planning capacity afforded by a pre-booked caesarean, what's a girl to do? Go to the hairdressers every second day in anticipation? Or do you succumb to the fact you’re going to look like a sweaty, puffy, sleep-deprived Worzel Gummidge caught in a rain storm and just pray that your photos don’t end up being witnessed by all of your partner’s ex-girlfriends?
Anyway, I’ve decided that I will start aforementioned career change later, and stop berating myself for being in a professional no-mans land, because actually, I’m earning money writing this blog. Two months in and I’ve accumulated 15 US dollars from the Google ads! I can’t tell you how thrilled this makes me. Next I'll have publishers queueing up to offer me the book deal.
But even beyond bog-standard pregnant brain behaviour, when I meet new people – and the majority of my new acquaintances are pregnant – they all want to know what I do and whether I’m still doing it. I haven’t been doing it for months now. I’m “between careers”, which is an even worse and far vaguer place to be than “between jobs”.
I used to be a technical writer. This is a bit of a blanket term for someone who prepares documentation of some sort, for some apparent purpose, in one of many different roles and settings, not all of which are as awful as they sound. People tend to recoil when I tell them what I do (did). “So you write those shitty instruction manuals that none of us can understand?” is the usual reaction. Looking at the instructions for the steamer I purchased this week, I can understand the negativity toward these instruction writers (though I’ve never met someone who writes instruction leaflets for actual *things* that you buy at the shop). A quick example from the steamer instructions:
“This machine is not prepared for use of people who have weak and infirm physical abilities, or who have slow and tardy reaction or response (i.e. anyone who’s 8 and a half months pregnant should probably avoid this thing), or who have mental or spirit handicap or impediment, unless they can safely use under the instructions and help from personnel who have safe responsibilities to them.”
Anyway, back to the point. I’m redefining myself as we speak. I’m on the cusp of reinventing myself and re-entering the world as a new woman. I’m like Madonna. Except I’m not really. I’m not actively pursuing a new career, and I can’t blather on about my day at the office with the other girls, so this leaves me to blather on about the only thing that’s consuming my daily life right now – being pregnant.
I must be very careful when I’m talking to my old friends, but I’ve had the opportunity to chat to loads of fellow whales just lately and I have to say, it’s liberating being able to discuss in great detail the merits of perineal massage, what that prostaglandin stuff they use for inducing labour actually is (I was informed in the pool on Thursday night that it’s made from pig sperm – I am not even willing to google this yet just in case it’s true), how much width is acceptable between cot mattress and cot, which TOG rating is ideal for the baby’s sleeping bag, how to deal with the family pet’s inevitable feelings of displacement and jealousy. And so on and and so on and so on.
I know I’ve become boring – I do, but I can’t shut myself up.
Being pregnant is like getting a membership card to some exclusive little club that allows you to talk - with fellow members only - about your reproductive system at great length and admit to doing really stupid, vain or socially unacceptable things. A friend of mine was going for a planned caesarean a few years ago and told me she’d had her hair done the previous day and then barely slept the previous night trying to preserve the just-stepped-out-of-the-salon look. At the time I thought she was actually mad, but now the realisation is setting in that those post-birth photos can travel a long way in email-land. I know this because last week I saw my friend L’s ex-husband’s friend’s wife beaming proudly from my laptop screen, looking very blonde and very serene and very groomed. Never mind the baby, who just looked like a baby wrapped up in a blanket (a lovely one of course). This was a photo of Amanda looking bloody amazing, shortly after giving birth to her first child. And she’s not a celebrity, so we can’t even put it down to stylists and airbrushing.
Without the planning capacity afforded by a pre-booked caesarean, what's a girl to do? Go to the hairdressers every second day in anticipation? Or do you succumb to the fact you’re going to look like a sweaty, puffy, sleep-deprived Worzel Gummidge caught in a rain storm and just pray that your photos don’t end up being witnessed by all of your partner’s ex-girlfriends?
Worzel Gummidge - or me, shortly after giving birth
Anyway, I’ve decided that I will start aforementioned career change later, and stop berating myself for being in a professional no-mans land, because actually, I’m earning money writing this blog. Two months in and I’ve accumulated 15 US dollars from the Google ads! I can’t tell you how thrilled this makes me. Next I'll have publishers queueing up to offer me the book deal.
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Comment by Anonymous
Comment by Tracy
Movies and Life
What a coincidence, I've done some technical writing jobs and am studying it at uni...ironically I hate reading instruction manuals, I plunder through until I absolutely have to read anything.
Tracy