What Mother’s Day means to three new moms.
Kathryn Hudson struggles with the new priorities that come with starting a family.
when I found out I was pregnant, I was wearing a sweatshirt that had “This is the end” lettered across the chest. I stumbled out of the bathroom, pregnancy test winking its positive results accusingly in my hand. My husband took one look at my expression and dissolved into a messy state that fell somewhere between giddy and fucking delighted.
I cried for two hours, mumbling that they were tears of joy, although I’m pretty sure those don’t present in jagged, hacking sobs. I still don’t quite understand my reaction. After all, I’d wanted a baby, and I’m not innocent enough to misunderstand the ways in which we’d been trying for one.
It just suddenly felt like I was staring toward, well, the end. The end of the career to which I’d lashed my heart years ago. The end of the careless, avant-garde life I might have wanted. The end of freedom.
I tried to rally, telling myself that, these days, pregnancy might be one of the best things that can happen to your career. Especially if you’re Beyoncé, who presented her bump to the world like Simba on a clifftop. Or Blake Lively, who had an elaborate shower mere days after announcing her pregnancy seemingly just to populate her lifestyle website with breezy backlit pictures. Or Coco Rocha, who, to share her news, posted an Instagram video of her leotard-clad body spinning slowly on a platform.
The ravenous cultural fascination with celebrities and their bodies seems powerful enough to get even the limpest Hollywood career h