The New Yorker:

I spent months limiting my movement, to protect a high-risk pregnancy. How did it change me?

By Anna Russell

Early in my first pregnancy, about three years ago, I did a thing that a lot of pregnant women do. I picked up my phone and scrolled through videos of pregnant women doing cool things. In one, a woman with a big belly—she must have been about seven months—was surfing. She wore a bikini, and her legs looked strong. Her hair blew behind her shoulders when she slid down a wave. When I watched the video, I thought, Wow, good for her! in a not-sarcastic way. Weeks later, on modified bed rest to protect my endangered pregnancy—marooned on my sofa, unable to confidently shower or walk upstairs for fear of triggering labor—I thought of the surfing woman again, this time huffily. “Good for her!” I said to myself, and returned to my book.

The book I was reading was Edith Wharton’s “The Custom of the Country,” from 1913. It’s the story of a beautiful social climber named Undine Spragg who attempts, through a series of opportunistic marriages, to infiltrate the highest ranks of New York society. I liked Undine because she existed in a time different from my own. Also, she did whatever she wanted. When Undine falls pregnant—a wrench in her plans—she throws a fit. Her husband tries to calm her down. “But, Undine—dearest—bye and bye you’ll feel differently—I know you will!” he says. “Differently? Differently?” she responds, in a rage. “When? In a year? It takes a year—a whole year out of life! What do I care how I shall feel in a year?”

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