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Weighty Matters

People fixate on women’s weight. They notice if you eat donuts or salad. A woman’s appetite is often a subject for public discussion.

And, never is this more true than when you’re pregnant.

First, there’s the list of food to avoid. No fish, no deli meat, no soft cheese, no alcohol, no caffeine, no peanut butter, limit junk food, limit sugar, limit salt. Then, the “recommendations.” Drink enough water to float a pontoon. Protein. Leafy greens. And, vitamins. You need iron, you need fiber to counteract the iron. Omega 3’s. You’re building a baby, here, lady, and can’t be trusted to figure it out on your own, so here’s a worksheet with a food pyramid.

And, then… the cravings. Everyone wants to know about the cravings. What did you crave? Pickles? Dirt? Ice chips? What your particular craving represents—a deficiency of some sort.

Can you stop binging? Are you eating for two? Or, can you even keep anything down? The nausea. Do you have it? When do you have it? How are you trying to stop it? Ginger? Saltines? How about some more water?

And, on top of all the interest in what goes into you mouth (or comes back up), there’s the weigh-ins. How much did you gain this week? This month? In the first trimester? Second? Third? Stretch marks? Are you “on target?” Are you “at risk” ‘cause you were overweight to start? Are you “at risk” because you were underweight? Did your boobs grow? Your ass? Double chin? Missing waist? Bigger feet?

And, the doctor marks it all down on your chart, when you come in. That’s the very first thing they do at my appointments—the weigh-in.

I haven’t been this aware of my weight in years. I haven’t had anyone else so fixated on my weight in my entire life.

It’s insane.

I have gained 15 lbs. I am not looking like I’m going to hit the “target” zone, based on how much I gained in the last month. I “measure” fine, which means that the doctor pulls out a tape measure and actually measures my belly. I don’t overeat. I don’t undereat. I just… eat. When I’m hungry. And, I try not to eat anything that’s all sugar. That’s about it.

My lack of weight gain irritates my husband. He says I’m “dieting,” which is bullshit, ‘cause it’s not like I turn down cheese enchiladas or ice cream. My sister says there’s something wrong with me—that it’s some sort of failing on the part of my body, which likely has something to do with the miscarriages, as if I’m a delicate little flower for whom it’s just all too much. My grandmother was very approving, though, as she thinks that the sister and cousin gained entirely too much, and that doctors today are crazy to not stress keeping the weight gain to a minimum. She says she used to suck on hard candies to keep herself from getting queasy between meals.

Everyone has got an opinion.

Women are so often seen as morally suspect in a bodily sense. Lying and conniving and cheating. Wild and out of control and flaunting. Not to be trusted with our own bodies. And, food is second only to sex in the grand scheme of American Self-Indulgence. When women intake food it’s sinful and indulgent. And, pregnancy on top of that? Where there’s no choice but to hope that untamed uterus does it’s job, and that she puts enough of the right food in there to do the job right?

I’m surprised they don’t insist on tube feeding us all scientifically designed Pre-natal formula. Then everyone else could breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that experts were in charge.

tags: feminism, pregnancy