This was not my intended article. Initially, I began a piece about the glorious world of “mom-nesia,” which then turned into a piece that I think would help new moms during those first few days home with a newborn. Those pieces will probably be reworked and show up here in the near future, but I couldn’t stop my brain from wandering and so, in the end, as it’s sometimes easier to do, I stopped fighting and let this piece push its way out.
In a world that could still, even in this advanced day and age, be considered a man’s world, I’ve never completely understood feminism. Now before you start sending me hate mail, let me explain.
In junior high and high school, I read about the feminist movements. I thanked the Suffragists for planting strong roots, avidly read Madam de Beauvoir’s Second Sex, and questioned the homemaker after The Feminine Mystique. With protest envy, I dreamed of burning my bras, making a stand with Gloria Steinem and standing in the factory with Norma Rae when enough was enough. I know the simple statement of “my body is mine” was hard won with Roe v. Wade. During college, I listened and absorbed as I came into contact with a wide variety of feminists that ran the gamut from one extreme to the other. From the women with adult children who broke free of their marital chains to the cropped hair, camo pants and wallet chains of the androgynous extremists, I’ve known the many faces of feminism. The “click!” I waited for never came. I just never quite fit.
Equality is one thing, but I’ve never wanted to be treated like a man. I don’t want stupid shoulder punches and Milli-Vanilli chest bumps. I am well aware that I am able to open my own door, but it’s nice when chivalry isn’t dead. Being a secretary never seemed like a demeaning career choice, as I enjoyed my job and was proud that I was damn good at what I did. While hiking in the woods of North Carolina, I saw a handsome man come riding out of the trees on a white horse and my heart actually went pitter-pattering (true story!)
Call me a mush bucket, but I actually wanted that white knight. Donna Reed always seemed in control. She was calm and well dressed (although I’ll admit the pearls and heels were a bit much while vacuuming the carpet, but when you love your shoes …). While the women of the feminism meetings talked of their desire to be viewed as people and not as women, I kept quiet and dreamed of a little yellow house with shutters and window boxes, kids playing in the yard with the family dog yelping happily, all nicely shut behind that pristine, white picket fence. Oh yes, I was a phony feminist. No one but my closest friend knew, because in that group of strong, determined women, I was afraid to admit my desires. I was afraid they wouldn’t have understood my Susie Homemaker tendencies. It seemed as if I was on one side of the coin and they were on the other.
Some years later, I was realized there is no equality between men and women. There can never be. Is it because women can never live up the same potential as those stodgy, old men holding up inside the gentleman’s club? Of course not! It’s because try as they might, men will never be able to live up to us!
My body, which I once lamented and compared to every woman under a size 4 I happened across, carried a child and gave birth to new life. Goodness gracious, I might get equal pay for equal work, but no man can come close to what my body can do.
Over the majority of a year, my body took a tiny cell and created a person. There are classes and books and tons of websites that will give you instructions on what to do and not to do during a pregnancy, but the fact of the matter is: none of it matters. My body would have done it regardless. I took birthing classes and read the books and prepared mentally, but if I hadn’t? My body would have done exactly what it was made to do. My husband was wonderful. He fed my cravings, painted my toes and bit his tongue when my hormones had me crying over the wrong flavor of granola bar. I think he innately knew that during this time, I deserved to be pampered and cherished.
This body, that I had insulted with embarrassment and punished at the gym, went through 40 weeks of pregnancy. It overcame four months of nausea and vomiting. My skin stretched to accommodate my growing baby. Cravings of red meat and olives were giving that tiny baby the vitamins and minerals that it needed. Even my organs moved around to make space inside my body. My stomach relocated (and the bladder, ugh). On May 14, my body was on auto-pilot when it delivered my beautiful baby boy. Talk about “I-am-woman-hear-me-roar!”
What I had been missing all along was the fact that our simply being women was the basis of our strength, the foundation of our superiority. It doesn’t matter if we play with the big boys or we stay at home. Our chaos could be Wall Street or our living room. We could have 18 children (and still counting!) or choose to have none. The differences don’t matter. The fact remains that we are women. We are strong, we are capable and we are the world. Hell, it is called Mother Earth. After years of struggling to find my place in the world of feminism, it only took one look into the face of a tiny baby boy to teach me that the power of feminism IS femininity. There’s a reason that Botticelli praised the female (and really, bless him for praising the curves). We deserve it.
