Romanticising pregnancy is a white middle class privilege

It’s been interesting watching the Handmaid’s Tale, which reaches its finale this weekend on Netflix, while preggo. The rivalry between pregnant handmaiden June and Serena, the infertile commander’s wife who’s legitimised by the regime to take and raise the handmaid’s child – ostensibly conceived by state sponsored rape – may be much more than we have to deal with in the real world. But like so much in The Handmaid’s Tale, the truth echoes through uncomfortably.

June has little choice but to succumb to multiple indignities, but back in the real world, it’s actually a relief to see the brute realities of pregnancy, childbirth and its aftermath brought to gritty life in a drama that feels only just beyond the realms of possibility.

From the awe-inspiring birth scene where June attempts an escape, fights off a wolf and considers shooting her captors before giving birth naturally (as so many women do around the world) pain relief- and midwife-free; the humiliation of pumping for someone else to feed her child and her letdown reflex leaving nipple-shaped patches of milk on her gown when her baby is forcibly removed from her care – it’s been interesting to watch a portrayal of motherhood that genuinely reflects some of the pain, difficulties and downright unpleasantness having a baby entails – and which is so often whitewashed, starched and dressed up in a cute outfit for the consumption of other people.

It’s hardly surprising that many women used to a glossy, celebrity-style introduction to motherhood make a howl of protest (normally on Mumsnet) at the stark reality when they themselves become mothers. It’s a mucky business, but most people prefer to keep the gristly bits off their newsfeed- and for good reason. Most of their “friends” would rather not know.

Yet increasingly, the modes and methods of pregnancy, childbirth and feeding are appearing as political gambits on my friends’ newsfeeds – whether about choice- “fed is best” being the latest slogan so self-evident as to be even more patronising than the old “breast is breast” tattoo trotted out on old NHS posters; or the right to elective Caesarian, or in confessional articles about the traumas of early miscarriage.

Perhaps talking about these issues on public forums helps to remove some of the fluff and mystique the surrounds early motherhood. Yet, like the proliferation of “post-partum body” snaps nowadays posted with monotonous regularity on Instagram, I can’t help but feel that, among all the comments and commiserations elicited in long distance emoji, the posters risk engorging the divide between women who apparently do it all effortlessly and those who don’t.

Like the grotesque scene in which Serena attempts to calm June’s squalling child by putting it to her own empty breast, the frustrations of women who stuggle to fulfil their #parentinggoals feel pitted against those who do so with apparent ease – it feels as though fertility and it’s aftermath has become a war no one wins- yet everyone shoots daggers nonetheless.

But perhaps what we’re all trying to articulate in the game of trauma trumps we all like to play is the struggles of motherhood are visceral, and challenging for everyone. Yet, admit I’m greeting the arrival of my newborn, now less than 15 weeks away, with growing trepidation, and it elicits my shame and others’ judgement (or worse, silence). Motherhood may have come easier for me than some, but mothering’s been an uphill struggle of constantly questioning myself, feeling like a failure and resentful of how much my life’s had to change each time.

Now, with the onslaught of appointments, constant peeing in pots, and having my weight checked by strangers, the unfair distribution of admin to do with my maternity leave and patronising discussions about job shares and going part time- or being asked whether I’m singing songs to my bump to aid its brain development (er… no!) – I want to weep. Not because I fear the birth, or breastfeeding or anything else that I seem to cope with so effortlessly compared to others, but because I know how vulnerable being a mother makes me to judgement, even if it’s only my own.

Life and its creation or sustenance is hard enough without those that manage this most ordinary of miracles feeling guilty about it. Motherhood is a minefield, and then you lose your precious bundle to Minecraft anyway. So rather than bemoaning our individual struggles, perhaps we should come together to admit it’s not easy, but we’re all just doing our best, and try to count our blessings the old fashioned way.