The sharing circle

I started a pregnancy yoga class two weeks ago as a way to move a little more intentionally so to make up for having quit the gym 3 months ago. I haven’t been this sedentary in 10+ years, though its probably unfair to define myself this way considering I walk 1.5 miles each way to work nearly every day.

The yoga seems to have been a smart decision as I come away feeling relaxed and content. I also quite enjoy meeting other pregnant women and hearing bits about each other’s experience. One downside is that with women ranging from 14 – 38 weeks along, my ‘bump-envy’ has increased. I look around the room and can confirm that I win the award of ‘least pregnant looking.’ Even the instructor who is 3 weeks behind me is quite obviously with child. With all this, throughout the first session I kept thinking ‘I really don’t belong here… I’m not really pregnant!’ Oh denial.

At the beginning of class we go around the circle and say our name and a bit about whatever the instructor suggested we state. On week 1 we declared the basics: how far, boy or girl, # pregnancies etc. Last week we shared a mini recap about how we were feeling this week, which of course includes a bit about events that took place.

I shared about how my baby is most obviously like the daddy – mellow and only interested in doing what he wants to do when he wants to do it. I’d just made an epic, delayed by sleet bus trip to the hospital for a 2nd attempt at measuring the heart via ultrasound. It was not successful. Apparently sound-wave produced image loses clarity past 10mm. With the placenta being at the front of my uterus and chubby mummy’s tummy stacked on top, there just wasn’t much chance to get a close-up of the heart – especially not with a tightly balled back-facing baby.

This was discouraging even though I have no idea what heart measurements will tell us. Even more, it was discouraging to find that the previous two scan reports both stated ‘diminished view,’ of which meant nothing to me until this third report, which continues the phrase …due to increased BMI. Awesome. Add that to the list of shitty things you get to experience for carrying around extra pounds your whole life. Oh, but this time it negatively affects an innocent life. Double Awesome.

The baby lives where?

We got a really lovely picture of the baby at the 13 weeks scan. Most babies are curled up at this stage, but ours was stretched out and showing some powerful legs with knobby knees. This of course comes from the daddy… as does the already obvious voluptuous, squishy lips I plan to kiss incessantly.

Even though the scan is meant for estimating a due date and taking measurements to detect Down Syndrome, for me it was the first ‘reality-check’ that I really am pregnant. It only took a second for the image of a complete little person to pop up on the screen. I got a little teary as both relief and shock passed over me. Relief that all looks good, and shock this is 100% happening and I’ve not dreamt this up a la ‘hysterical pregnancy.’

For awhile my boyfriend would ‘eat dinner with the baby’. He’d prop the photo up toward his bowl as he leaned forward scooping soup. I still glance at the picture every day, but I don’t pull it up on my phone as often.

Sometimes I get nervous looking at the picture for it seems to diminish the realness I felt during the scan experience. Having the photo, or even the image in my mind, somehow puts distance between my head and what’s happening in my body. Just like that picture on the mantle of Aunt Mildred, who you can only see when you visit Ohio, the scan photo makes me think that the baby lives at the hospital….. instead of living INSIDE me.

It seems this is another instance of how technology is bending our brains and blurring the outlines of our reality. Skyping with my parents keeps up the relationship and makes me feel like I just saw them yesterday, when in reality it has been nearly 2 years. I don’t know if that is good or bad, but it is definitely weird.

All this just makes me realise and want to appreciate more the flesh and blood, instead of pixels and RGB, of living. As this pregnancy progresses I want to be still and contemplate more often this new life inside me who is changing my life. I want to hum and sing and send vibrations down for the baby to feel and I want to cherish the little one’s flutters, tickles, and kicks. Such will be our first communication as we get to know each other.

This body

Within the first week of knowing I was pregnant I also came to know just how much my body is no longer my own. Everything I eat, every bit of exercise I partake, all moments of stress are shared with this life growing inside. This reality may be the hardest thing in pregnancy for me to swallow.

I’ve mostly experienced the less obvious signs of pregnancy. I had serious back pain in weeks 3-5 and was the first symptom that something was going on. My boobs hurt for awhile and well, they still do, but I can’t say they’ve gotten much bigger. My skin is clear, my hair is lush, and I’ve been complimented several times on my happy glow.

But the other outward changes of my body are taking their time, and I totally have ‘bump envy.’ The lack of bump-ness may be a a blessing to one who wants to retain physical autonomy for as long as possible. But in fact, that I’m not ‘showing’ is driving me crazy and proving that I absolutely don’t have control.

Pre-pregnancy, If I wanted to lose weight I could go to the gym and change my appearance ever so slightly. But if I want to grow a basketball in my front, well there is nothing I can do. No matter how many Snickers bars I’ve consumed, its just the bicycle tyre that grows, not the bump.

I’d like to know ‘where actually is this baby.’ At time of writing the news remains unpublished, so whilst its handy that halfway through I’m still not showing, its annoying that even if I wanted to post a new profile picture, there wouldn’t be much point.

I find myself envious of women on the street as much as friends I know who are also preggers. My boss’ wife is a week behind me and looks about 7 months already – but its her fourth. Another friend is a month ahead, her first, and is ginormous. Her pictures are gorgeous in all that soft lens, blissful miracle moment shots. For awhile I used her photos as a way of gauging how I’d look in 4 more weeks, but I’ve given up on that idea for I keep reaching the week that photo 1… 5…. 26 were shot, and I still look my normal, tall, slightly chubbier self.

Besides public empathy and never having to wait in a line at the loo again, what I’m honestly anxious for is a physical sign that what I’m experiencing is really real. The ultra-sound image helped a bit, but the effect is wearing off. My symptoms have been slight and are lessening, so I’m looking for those fabled flutters.

Autonomy

I love being alone and I crave solitude. In my earliest years I shared a room with my brother and remember sleeping toe to toe for awhile. By 3 years old we moved into our own house and me into my own bedroom. I had my own double-bed, inherited from my great-grandmother, and by 15 I had my own phone. We lived on the end of a private drive in a house built into a hill, surrounded by trees and a gully. I was often lonely, but made my own fun and learned to ‘live in my head.’

In Alaska I had my own little one bedroom apartment – Wytherbei. I still miss that place, not a month goes by that I do not reminisce about its cuteness and the calm it gave. Since moving to the UK I have felt more or less ‘homeless’ as I’ve moved from one rented room the next. Come December I will have called this present room ‘home’ for 2 years! Though I merely rent a room in a house with other tenants, I am afforded some autonomy in that mingling with housemates is not required, though I do like the friendly Polish guy.

Last week as I walked down the stairs this thought came into my mind – “I will never be alone again.” Never, ever, ever again will I just be me by myself doing my own thing. I will always have this child, always. How does one let that sink in…

The colloquial advice a person gives to someone lusting after a baby is “get a cat”. The person will find that the pet is a lot of work and yet not nearly as much as a baby, so then will quickly forget pursuing the latter. This week I’ve found myself dwelling on this reality. From the insignificant, “oh wow, I won’t be able to just put out food and water and head for the coast” to the serious, “how can I pursue an ambitious career when workplaces are so baby un-friendly, who’s gonna watch the kid… me you say?”

I wonder if I will lament all the times in my young adult life I lamented being alone. So many times did I find myself weeping that I had no sweetheart to go out with on a Friday night. Equally as often did I feel sorry for myself that all my friends were busy without me. Eventually I became incredibly good at making my own fun, best manifest in my addiction to solo-sports in Alaska (road cycling, skate-skiing, and running). Of those 3, all that remains is my cycling – but even that has fallen away. It’s cold and getting slippery and I’m too nervous of falling off. Once baby is here I’ll have to wait till he/she is big enough to sit up in the chair, and from what I can tell that’s at least 8 months, but more likely 12! So much for hopping on my bike for a quick ride – that type of outing will now require a babysitter. *sigh

An Old Joke for a New Life

Even though I knew I was pregnant before my parents went on holiday, I waited to tell them until they returned home.  The news hadn’t yet sunk in nor settled for me, and this kind of news should be broken with much happiness.  It was easy to delay the announcement for a couple weeks as they were camping in a valley with no mobile reception.  I had thought to wait a whole week after they returned, but I’m rubbish at secrets and wanted to get it out there and over with.  I was happy, but I was nervous.

I finally got around to telling them after skyping for 2-3 hours.  They couldn’t believe I had chatted so long without spilling the beans.  At the last minute I nearly didn’t because they had started debating their to-do list and I thought, “okay, I won’t add anymore stress.”  Fortunately, the converse happened and the news dispelled said stress.

Even though we were on Skype, I announced by email and had them read it aloud.  Both of them were at the screen and I could watch their reaction – which started slow, because I threw them for a loop.  I used an old joke told back when I was about 14.  If you know it, this will make more sense:

Duck walks into a meat market…..

Got any grapes?

Are you kidding me?

We don’t have any grapes!

How bout something the size of a grape?

Sure…. its grape-sized now, but best wait another 32 weeks.

Congratulations GRANDMA and GRANDPA!

My mom figured it out first and looked at my dad who was still confused.  She had to explicitly say, “its a baby.”  To which I added, “I’m having a baby.”  The Skype image turned to nodding of heads and small grins until my mom declared, “we’re finally going to get a grandkid.”

Hope that’ll suffice as a retirement gift. 

**if these are your photos, sorry for not crediting, its just a silly personal blog anyway – get in touch if you want me to add credit

I Don’t Want It

I’m pretty sure I planned my unplanned pregnancy. Yet, when the pee stick returned its results in 3 seconds (not enough time to finish a wee) my eyes widened and mind raced with expletives.

Once I stood up and took the stick in my hands, the first words from my mouth were “I don’t want it.”

This isn’t the reaction one would expect from a woman who has brooded for the past several months and lightly complained to her beau that he wasn’t giving her a baby. I even told people last Christmas that I wanted to be pregnant this time next year. And when we were making love I “knew” we were making a baby – and said as much in my head.

Whether I spoke out my broodiness in jokey quips or matter of fact statements, all those moments were living inside of fantasy. They were covered in images of cute little mixed babies with curly twirls of feathery brown hair and puppy dog eyes with crocodile tears dripping down chubby cheeks.

The day after conception I felt a dutiful responsibility to prevent any such fantasies from becoming reality. I went up to the GP and took emergency contraception instead of visiting the clinic I so dislike and having a new copper IUD fitted. Afterward I told my boyfriend the situation and together we decided to definitely forgo the latter option. Again, the un-realness of such a conversation meant we assumed the chances were low and would make due if we indeed ended up in the 5-15% category.

I consider myself well versed in contraceptive options, but to my surprise, the next week whilst skimming scientific studies I found that doctors are not so convinced emergency contraception is effective in preventing implantation. I blame my confusion on anti-choice politicians who claim it does so and is therefore akin to abortion. No sirs, its definitely not and I’m all the case study I’ll ever need to make that argument.

When I reached my bedroom I started pacing and shaking my wrists before laying on the bed and weeping. I had to get out and so walked to the park on what was one of the most marvellously beautiful mornings we’ve had all summer. I traced the labyrinth and stood among the ducks. I walked along the river and prayed and cried and walked some more.

Three hours later my boyfriend came in from work and I composed myself until he could collapse into a chair. I sat across from him and squeaked, “I took a test, and I’m pregnant. I’m sorry,” then I burst into more tears. I showed him the stick to which he raised his eyebrows. He was silent, but not for too long, as soon he was asking why I was crying. My immediate reply, “its scary.” I cried a lot more. He hugged me. He kissed me. He said, “there’s no reason to be scared.” Then it sunk in and he declared himself a daddy.

He spent the rest of the morning dancing around the room – and joy filled my heart.

Feminism v. Christianity, Christians v. Feminists [and vice versa]

Woe to the woman who chooses a secular framework to guide her theology. She will be caught in the middle of ideas, ones that she does not believe are opposed to each other. She will feel contempt and skepticism from both parties. No one will seem to understand her.

She uses feminism to explore the Divine and learns about the ‘feminine’ attributes long oppressed throughout the ages. The Spirit personified as woman. Wisdom, or Sophia, it is She whom you shall seek.

She uses feminism to reconcile the differences wrought out of culture that makes a modern life simply unliveable otherwise. How fortunate is the Proverbs 31 woman for in her industriousness she will sustain the family amidst neoliberal agenda and the crushing of her husband’s industry (low-level banking, unionised professions, academia). “Women obey your husbands,” sure thing, but feminism explores the circumstance and amends absolute terms in order to preserve a woman’s life. Jesus stopped the stoning of a woman by men of the city, but would he not if her accuser had been her husband? Maybe he was.

The Christian Feminist woman struggles with that very Proverbs 31 woman. Why did she have to be so damn good at everything? But wait a minute, why did we need 2nd wave feminism if even in Biblical times women were expected to work outside the home? Though the form of work may have changed, the purpose of providing for a family and the reward of success and recognition are the same. Centuries and then decades later feminists are interrogating this double-burden and introducing terms of ‘care labour’ and ‘time poverty’. The former does not gain public recognition in macro nor micro economics as it is usually unpaid work. Only the feminist identifies this problem. Only she understands the toll it takes and the impossibility of doing it all. Only the feminist will challenge norms and asks for help regardless of cultural standard.

She finds herself exasperated and grows weary of keeping just a little bit quiet. At church she holds her tongue when the Pastor’s tangent includes all the mandates of gender dictated by culture yet masked in doctrine. She shrinks back when the conference attendee fundamentalizes feminism proclaiming, “we should have a problem with religion,“ and not just religious extremists.

Can she handle the realities of her life in this chosen identity – being a bit of both? How can she convince her sweetheart that her feminism does not attack her faith, but informs it and guides her into clearer understanding? That it was the Divine who led her to this ideology and that the world cannot afford to ignore it.

And if he refuses to come alongside her, where does she turn when she already knows she will fail the ever-expanding litmus test of feminism? Her own friend scoffed at her for claiming to be a ”Christian Feminist” even going so far as to say she was merely Christian for the sake of the sweetheart. In this respect, does he think she is merely Feminist for the sake of her Sisters? What if both are true, is she not free to make these choices?

She’s been told by Christians, you just can’t be a feminist. She’s been told by feminists, you just can’t be a Christian.

Then how is it that I exist?

When You Find Your Life In Your Studies

I completed the coursework of my Masters two years ago. TWO YEARS AGO! I can’t believe how fast life goes these days and I blame not just getting older, but the monotony of it all.

Since finishing I have done very little toward my degree – and really toward the whole reason I came to this country to get a degree. I have an M.A. in Gender Analysis of International Development from the University of East Anglia. It’s a vey expensive piece of paper (though the printed paper is el-cheapo).

Two years ago I also learned about the AWID conference (Association of Women’s Rights in Development) and kept it on my mind in hopes I could attend. I did and it knocked my socks off.

HOWEVER, whilst its only been 6 days since I returned, my newly renewed motivation, inspiration, and overall happier outlook on life have already tanked. I was greeted with the dreariest of weather I’ve ever experienced on the island. Returning to work meant being bombarded with a host of grumpiness and obsessions over small annoyances. Being at home meant going back to the way things always are, which is a life of stolen moments to converse about the mundane and stolen kisses to maintain a reminder of the romantic.

When I haven’t been occupied with “care labour” – I’ve spent a bit of time each day going through the stack of literature I brought back. I even entered the received business cards into my address book! Right now I write this blog – all progress. I should remind myself of this more as pre-Istanbul I hadn’t written since January.

The biggest realisation of all began on the last day during a pre-session (on the way to the loo) conversation. As most encounters at conferences go, I was asked what I do/who do I work for, and so each of the four days I spent replying “I’m looking for opportunities.” Sometimes I would delve into details as was such this last morning. The lovely UK woman I spoke with gathered my words and made the clear point that I’ve simply been spending my time doing what everyone else in the world does.

A month after graduation I found myself in a crisis mix of ‘what do I do now’ & ‘how did I suddenly get this poor?’ & ‘wow, I love being in love’.

These two years have been a time to live everything I studied. Whether it be household dynamics, shared labour, buying power, religion-ascribed gender roles, migration, remittance yada yada yada – I’ve lived it. I’ve likely learned more about these topics by being part of them, and definitely feel a more genuine solidarity with anyone out there that “I studied” or “hope to help”.

I’ve been part of many compromises, and technically I’ve lost out on a lot. I delayed my career and chose to live far below my standards. I scrimp and save and dream of stability. I cook and clean, pick up after my sweetheart, and so often feel the pain of loneliness as we work opposite shifts. It’s terrible, but I chose this. It’s been a time to invest in our relationship and prepare the way for a future together.

It feels very un-feminist of me to have done this and its that internal struggle that seems to breed strife, but how can it not? This commonality with women across the world is the biggest insight to me. Daily we live and daily we struggle with how we live. Our ideologies content for our lifestyle, but our realities more readily dictate how we live.

Sister Solidarity

It’s my last night in Istanbul and whilst I’ve had an enjoyable, sunny day, I’ve been lonely. I miss my sisters!

Never have I been part of such a welcoming, encouraging, inspirational space. The AWID 2012 conference in Turkey will be a highlight of my 30′s.

I came full of positive self-talk: Be confident, Make friends and contacts, Bring energy. I did pre-reading, ordered ‘business’ cards, and prayed for an end to these 2 months of low energy. I believe I was successful.

Apologies to my Facebook friends whose feeds I filled. But if a woman does not speak does she still have a voice? Tweeting incessantly was my first practice in confidence for until now I presume many fb friends didn’t really know Kymberly. The one who seethes at injustice and took to action at the finale event marching through the streets of Istanbul.

I almost skipped the march, but felt convicted that for me this would be hypocrisy. How could I spend 4 days learning and agreeing in the need for global solidarity for all women and their rights and yet not take the first opportunity to manifest these beliefs? I went and had an opportunity-within-the-opportunity to stand up for other women.

Street Harassment is pervasive in, well, the world. But never would I imagine that during a joyful march of solidarity with our Turkish sisters a Jamaican woman would be assaulted! Amongst us all she was groped – and visibly shaken.

She told me this after I noticed a man attempting to flirt with her friend. Really?! I started walking just a little nearer to them.

A few minutes later she recognised the perpetrator and moved to confront him. As I watched her fiercely interrogate him I saw him deny and deflect using ‘no english’ as excuse.

I would have none of this and backed up my sister by shouting away the perpetrator. I yelled and pointed and yelled some more. He quickly retreated in his guilt, I just hope he left the street altogether.

My sister was near tears as we embraced and walked with arms around each other. She was grateful I did that for her – how could I not?

How many times have you been groped on the street – and in a foreign country? Do you know what that does to a woman? One minute she walks confidently and the next second she’s in shock and fear. She’s stunned and needs someone to intercede.

On both of my occasions I did nothing. Yesterday I saw my sister gather herself and do something, I’m proud to have joined. This action showed the really really real Kymberly and even I’m glad to meet her!

Nearly 3 years ago I quit my job and sold nearly everything so I could step out more tangibly into the role of ‘the girl who cares’. Though the path has been curved with doubt and delay, this week has jolted me back into the cause of women’s rights by connecting me to dozens of the 2,000+ participants of AWID 2012.

“Don’t get too comfortable, because in front of me lies a terrifying bunch of revolutionary women.” – Egyptian activist, AWID2012 speaker

Fundamentalism & Feminism

Religious fundamentalisms belong to every religion in every geographic region of the world. It is the manipulation of religion to gain economic power. So not to speak of regions and people I know very little, I will reflect on my knowledge of Christian Fundamentalists.

For a short period of my most idealistic days I was a Christian Fundamentalist. Not to the extreme of calling for domestic terror via abortion clinic bombings, but definitely was for graphic displays of aborted fetuses. I shudder to think I once thought traumatising the viewer was a good tactic – strategic? Humane?

I feel squarely in the middle between fundamentalism and secularism. I do not fully ascribe to either, but I can understand both, or at least a little. As I have studied and experienced both ‘sides’ I am equally interested in them and cautiously listen to their views.

Yesterday I attended an evening session which celebrated the opening of The Centre for Secular Space now open in the UK.it is an appropriately chosen geography as it is a hub of migrants and therefore fundamentalisms. I think it a brilliant initiative led by oldie feminists who have bee working on human right issues for 30+ years.

The discussion period was lively albeit it mainly dwelled on Islamic Fundamentalism. Whilst the opening of the session began with declarations that it is Religious Fundamentalism and not religion or faith that the Centre was setting itself to study/be against, it seems a thread of the opposite resided in the room.

At one point a Turkish woman described her experience living in a small village. She encounters difficulties being secular in a religious context, and I feel for her. But I bristled when she declared feminists should too have a “problem with religion”.

That said, actually I have a problem with religion too. And yes much came from my feminism. But since the first day I declared myself FEMINIST until today – I am a Christian Feminist.

Do we then need a third tier? Something akin to the non-label my generation is so fond of – ‘Spiritual but not Religious’. According to the Turkish woman and my problems with religion must I be just a Spiritual Feminist in order to maintain my membership of the latter? Yet it is it then rejection of the former?

Through the evolution of my faith I have come to realise it is impossible to be spiritual without religion for it is in the order, the history, the community that guides me. So no, I cannot e just spiritual, just like I cannot be “I’m not a feminist, but….”.

I don’t think it is helpful to put up yet more divisions between us, this was Gita Sen’s call in the opening plenary. Intersectionality of feminism has pulls us together where differences threaten our movement. Therefore, as a feminist I do not have a problem with religion, but I do find much of it problematic. As a Christian I do not have a problem with feminism, but I will also find some things problematic. This is okay, this is critical thinking.

My call out to the feminists I shared space with last night is to please not marginalise me.

An Iranian girl shared that she is baffled by her expat friends who are returning to Islam. I am equal astonished by my friends who once scoffed at my faith and who now attend church regularly. There seems a softening of my age towards spirituality to fulfil a real longing in our lives. In this agr of technology and automation, cubicles and commutes, we are keen on authenticity – real food, local goods, heritage religion.

If secularism encompasses the belief to be free FROM and OF religion, then let’s keep the space open for all ____/feminists.