“WE’RE PREGNANT!”

Men have a tremendously important role to play in pregnancy, but that role doesn’t extend to claiming ownership of the gestational period, writes father-of-three Craig Bishop

I READ A FASCINATING ARTICLE

the other day about an Australian same-sex couple who are both breastfeeding their four-week-old daughter. The non-biological mom had undergone hormone therapy so she could also start producing milk, and thus share in one of the most intense marvels of motherhood. I did a bit of Google research and discovered, to my instant amazement and lasting horror, that this hormone therapy could, in theory, allow men to breastfeed as well. After all, male breasts do have milk ducts and our bodies also contain oxytocin and prolactin, the hormones responsible for milk production. “Sweet Lamb of Heaven,” I cringed, like a whipped puppy. “Turn off the laptop! Burn the internet! Liz must never, ever learn of this miracle of modern science.” Visions of purple empathy balls – you know, those fake baby bumps men can strap on to feel the effects of carrying around a growing baby – and 3am milking stations flashed through my mind. My boobs are for swimming through the Atlantic Ocean, not for motor-boating gummy little mouths, surely? Once I’d stopped shaking, I started thinking about sharing, especially when it comes to pregnancy. For example, we all know that husband who insists on saying, “We’re pregnant.” “No, you’re not, pal,” I always want to reply. She’s pregnant. Gender-trendy platitudes sound great on social media, but do little to reflect the certainty that she, not you, will be feeling nauseous every God-given hour of the day, that she will be experiencing her pelvic girdle creaking outwards like the stone entrance to Aladdin’s cave, that her ankles will be waterlogged, not yours, her breasts aching like indignant grapefruit, not yours, and, lest I sound too critical, it will be her experiencing the unique sensation of life flowering deep inside her, not you. Any flutterings in your tummy are probably from last night’s curry. Yes, it’s supposed to be a sign of adult human unity, that men finally get it, that we acknowledge the partnership required to raise a child, and that we’re committed to making this work. But, no. Men are the spare wheel on this solo road trip, I’m afraid. Yes, you might have filled up the tank, to queasily extend the metaphor, but your role is now that of backseat driver, or valet service, whose time would be best spent unquestioningly buffing the chrome-work, as it were, and of course monitoring fluid levels, preferably in the form of endless cups of tea, glasses of water and let’s not forget the intimate foot rubs. As a case in point, if JK Rowlings’ husband sub-edited all his wife’s written pages and made her the odd unexpected cup of tea, would we expect to see his name on the title page? No. Another good example of sharing gone wrong is unisex baby showers. I’m a progressive male, make no mistake, but here I draw the line. As I wrote in a previous issue of Your Pregnancy, baby showers are an ancient and immutable rite of passage for women – a safe zone in which to share feminine lore without the hairier one in the relationship cracking daft jokes, eating all the canapés, reeking of braai smoke around the newly unwrapped babygros, and worst-case scenario, fainting into the coffee table when he hears the phrase, “mucous plug”. Men, unfortunately are programmed from a young age to share in thunder that’s not really theirs to own. Think about a Sharks supporter. “We took the Currie Cup!” he might crow. No, pal, the bloody, battered, bruised hulks on the pitch did that. You sat drinking tequila and eating droëwors and shouting useless advice at the big screen. So, sorry – I’m all in favour of moms reclaiming semantic ownership of their remarkable birthright.

MY BOOBS ARE FOR SWIMMING THROUGH THE ATLANTIC OCEAN, NOT FOR MOTOR-BOATING GUMMY LITTLE MOUTHS, SURELY?