bloated balloons, through various prenatal exercises. It was meant to be a surprise, Bruno’s treat for me; a trip out of the apartment where I was confined, a swimming pool, and the cameraderie of other pregnant women.
We borrowed a car from a friend and set out, freezing because the heater did not work. The sage-femme introduced me to the other women, all of them slender with tiny bumps that protruded from their black nylon swimming costumes. The sage-femme asked me pointedly: ‘How much sugar are you eating each day?’
‘Sugar? I don’t eat sugar.’ I imagined someone eating spoonfuls of sugar from a sack, or Bruno eating Nutella from a jar with a spoon.
‘Because in France, we don’t gain more than twenty pounds.’
I told her about my enforced bed rest, how I had exercised my whole life and was forbidden to do so during my pregnancy. ‘To be honest,’ I told her, ‘I don’t care what I look like now, I just want a healthy baby. I don’t want to starve myself, or go on a diet during my pregnancy. I can do that after.’ After, I added, I stopped breastfeeding.
‘You plan on breastfeeding?’ I told her I was. She looked at me. ‘Because, in France, most women don’t. It ruins your breasts.’
I came from a culture where it was practically criminal not to breastfeed but I was already having misgivings.
‘OK,’ she said, regarding me as some strange Anglo-Saxon species, ‘get in the pool.’
I climbed into the freezing water with the other women, who seemed pleasant enough and who looked at me sympathetically. One of them spoke English. ‘I worked in New York,’ she said conspiratorially, as if to say: I know how shocking our culture is to you .
The midwife stood at the edge of the pool like a drill sergeant. ‘OK, now race! See who can get to the other side first!’
Even when I was not pregnant, I did not like the idea of racing. I thought one of the things about pregnancy was the escape from the competitive life I had lived before – racing against deadlines, trying to get the story before my counterparts on other papers.
‘I’m not racing,’ I said. ‘I’ll swim, but really, I don’t want to race.’
She shrugged, and the other women paddled viciously. I did some slow laps, but as my skin was turning blue, I climbed out of the pool.
The midwife turned to look at me. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Home,’ I told her, wrapping a towel around the huge bump that was my baby.
She looked at me coldly. ‘Are you ready for your birth? Do you know about the options for pain relief during labour? We’re discussing that next.’
I shrugged. I assumed I would have a natural childbirth, that I was not going to bring my child into the world drugged. ‘I guess I’m ready.’ I left her and the poor paddling women, as ready as I would ever be.
At thirty-two weeks, I could not stop coughing. I sat at my dressing table applying eyeliner and blusher because, even while pregnant, French women looked pretty. I spent time lying on the sofa with a blanket over me, and Bruno would light the fire while I read. I waited for my final check-up with Professor F.
We took a taxi to Hôpital Antoine-Béclère, passing Porte d’Orleans, the cinemas, the brasseries, and then the grey suburbs: kebab stalls, betting shops, Arab fruit and vegetable markets. Wet snow and low-hanging grey skies.
Why, at the happiest moments of my life, was I filled with such immense melancholy, such a profound sense of sadness? I was married to someone who loved me fiercely. I was having a baby, at last, who would be much loved, and was much desired. Yet my thoughts were blackened, ashes, coal. My sister said, ‘It’s in the genes. We come from a long line of melancholics. Remember Daddy?’ And I suddenly remembered my father on summer afternoons in our beach house, lying down for a siesta but not sleeping, his eyes open, listening to the distant sound of foghorns.
‘What are you thinking of, Daddy?’ I would ask,
We borrowed a car from a friend and set out, freezing because the heater did not work. The sage-femme introduced me to the other women, all of them slender with tiny bumps that protruded from their black nylon swimming costumes. The sage-femme asked me pointedly: ‘How much sugar are you eating each day?’
‘Sugar? I don’t eat sugar.’ I imagined someone eating spoonfuls of sugar from a sack, or Bruno eating Nutella from a jar with a spoon.
‘Because in France, we don’t gain more than twenty pounds.’
I told her about my enforced bed rest, how I had exercised my whole life and was forbidden to do so during my pregnancy. ‘To be honest,’ I told her, ‘I don’t care what I look like now, I just want a healthy baby. I don’t want to starve myself, or go on a diet during my pregnancy. I can do that after.’ After, I added, I stopped breastfeeding.
‘You plan on breastfeeding?’ I told her I was. She looked at me. ‘Because, in France, most women don’t. It ruins your breasts.’
I came from a culture where it was practically criminal not to breastfeed but I was already having misgivings.
‘OK,’ she said, regarding me as some strange Anglo-Saxon species, ‘get in the pool.’
I climbed into the freezing water with the other women, who seemed pleasant enough and who looked at me sympathetically. One of them spoke English. ‘I worked in New York,’ she said conspiratorially, as if to say: I know how shocking our culture is to you .
The midwife stood at the edge of the pool like a drill sergeant. ‘OK, now race! See who can get to the other side first!’
Even when I was not pregnant, I did not like the idea of racing. I thought one of the things about pregnancy was the escape from the competitive life I had lived before – racing against deadlines, trying to get the story before my counterparts on other papers.
‘I’m not racing,’ I said. ‘I’ll swim, but really, I don’t want to race.’
She shrugged, and the other women paddled viciously. I did some slow laps, but as my skin was turning blue, I climbed out of the pool.
The midwife turned to look at me. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Home,’ I told her, wrapping a towel around the huge bump that was my baby.
She looked at me coldly. ‘Are you ready for your birth? Do you know about the options for pain relief during labour? We’re discussing that next.’
I shrugged. I assumed I would have a natural childbirth, that I was not going to bring my child into the world drugged. ‘I guess I’m ready.’ I left her and the poor paddling women, as ready as I would ever be.
At thirty-two weeks, I could not stop coughing. I sat at my dressing table applying eyeliner and blusher because, even while pregnant, French women looked pretty. I spent time lying on the sofa with a blanket over me, and Bruno would light the fire while I read. I waited for my final check-up with Professor F.
We took a taxi to Hôpital Antoine-Béclère, passing Porte d’Orleans, the cinemas, the brasseries, and then the grey suburbs: kebab stalls, betting shops, Arab fruit and vegetable markets. Wet snow and low-hanging grey skies.
Why, at the happiest moments of my life, was I filled with such immense melancholy, such a profound sense of sadness? I was married to someone who loved me fiercely. I was having a baby, at last, who would be much loved, and was much desired. Yet my thoughts were blackened, ashes, coal. My sister said, ‘It’s in the genes. We come from a long line of melancholics. Remember Daddy?’ And I suddenly remembered my father on summer afternoons in our beach house, lying down for a siesta but not sleeping, his eyes open, listening to the distant sound of foghorns.
‘What are you thinking of, Daddy?’ I would ask,
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