Features

“Pregnant,” people echo, their faces lighting up—most with true hormonally induced baby fever, others because they sense it’s expected of them. And then—“Congratulations!” 

I squirm. And squeeze out my own slightly unnatural expected reaction. “Thanks!” 

Six months into gestation, I have still not been able to pinpoint my discomfort with these generally heartfelt offers of congratulations, other than the fact that they feel unjustly earned. In my understanding of the concept, congratulations are offered upon hard-won achievement—completing one’s education, saving enough to buy a house, getting a sought-after job. 

What level of achievement am I boasting with the fact that I had sex with my husband for the umpteenth time and the arrow happened to hit the mark? What kind of achievement is it for which a million horny teenagers every year would by that logic earn our congratulations? 

Of course, horny teenagers achieve the same result largely unintentionally so presumably it’s our wish fulfillment that people are congratulating. Only, most of them really don’t have a clue whether it’s wish fulfillment—for all they know it’s an unhappy accident we are making the best of. It isn’t, in this case, but they don’t know that. 

Perhaps it’s the sheer act of generating new life people are congratulating. Hooray, they’re thinking, one more to swell our ranks in case of global disaster. Or maybe congratulations are proffered in admiration of the unmitigated gall it takes to believe you have What It Takes to raise a Good Person—or the fearless (er, reckless?) optimism underlying the decision to introduce a new person to humanity’s dwindling supply of natural resources, societal opportunities, and basic civility. 

Whatever the reason, “congratulations” continues to feel like a bizarre non sequitur when I share the news. I make an instinctive half-turn to see who else they might be talking to. “Congratulations, your parts are in working order” seems a pale occasion to accept kudos. Congratulate me instead when I don’t accidentally kill the fragile thing in its first six months. Congratulate me when he learns to speak and his first words aren’t “Bad mommy.” Congratulate me when I figure out how to balance parenthood with the other beloved activities and relationships that have fulfilled me all my life. 

Congratulate me when I stop feeling ambiguous about the decision and am wholeheartedly excited about the impending miracle myself. 

Oops—unintentional self-revelation. I suppose the bottom line of my discomfort with procreational congratulations is of the “it’s not you, it’s me” variety. While hurdling inexorably towards babyville, I still have one foot stubbornly planted in my former life—and that foot twitches whenever it’s reminded that it will soon have to join its twin. 

Maybe Brittany Spears had the right idea after all, I find myself musing—do the baby thing before you amass a couple decades of solitary life experiences to mourn the loss of. 

I guess that’s the ultimate function of congratulations to pregnancy news, whether or not the well wishers even realize it—a reality check. A reminder that, um, yes, those words (“I’m pregnant”) came out of ‘your’ mouth, you idiot: get used to it, and get ready! In which case I say, bring it on—congratulate me up the wazoo. About three more months worth and I will be ready. 

Won’t I? 

Sonja Fitz is 39-year old mom-to-be and 19-year veteran of career ambiguity, so why would parenthood be any different?