The Baby Cult

Herself had her routine annual appointment with her OB/GYN this morning.  Despite the rather personal nature of the exam, Herself surprisingly does not mind going.  Her doctor -- who delivered Offspring the Third -- is a unique and exemplary doctor.  He apologizes for keeping her waiting and always remembers exactly who she is.  He inquires regarding her progress in taekwondo (and today, was visibly pleased when she informed him she is now a black belt).   He always takes the time to sit and answer questions, and he listens carefully and never interrupts; furthermore, he does so before Herself changes into the gown for the exam.  He thanks her every time for being his patient so long and for entrusting him with her health.  In this age of impersonal, wait-for-hours-and-then-rush-in-and-out-of-the-office medicine, Herself is tremendously grateful for attentive, genuine care.

After her appointment, Herself went for routine bloodwork.  In the waiting area were two heavily pregnant women performing the three-hour glucose tolerance test. First pregnant lady asked Second pregnant lady whether she had a 4-D ultrasound yet.  Second pregnant lady said no, because her doctor had indicated it was not necessary and that insurance would not pay for it, and it was too expensive otherwise.  First pregnant lady rather archly commented that oh, it wasn't that expensive, and that it was sooooooooo worth it, and that the place she went, there was a big screen and you could have up to nine of your family members in there with you, and you could see images of the baby's face and movement and everything.  First pregnant lady then pulled out her expensive smartphone, and scrolled through the pictures to find an example of the profile of her fetus.

Herself, who was unfortunately seated in the crossway between the two women, dutifully looked to admire the picture.  The photo itself was a tad underwhelming, looking more like a claymation baby than anything else.  What fascinated her, though, were the First pregnant woman's fingernails. They were fully an inch longer than the tips of her fingers, manicured with precision to have gold polish and tiny little blue footprints in the center.  They were clearly the nails of a pampered individual heavily focused on her imminent role as mother.

It is the Cult of Motherhood. Women are crowned and pampered. Their nails are indicative of their status: they cannot possibly do anything productive with their glistening, baby-footprinted talons. The women are inviting all their relatives -- or at least up to nine of them -- to view the growing fetuses within their wombs publicly, in live-time and multiple dimensions. They are worshiping at the altar of the belly - intruding medically, unnecessarily, with ultrasound waves solely in order to have a blurry monochromatic photograph of the not-yet-fully-formed features of the child.

The Cult of Motherhood perpetuates after the baby is born, too: baby is Princess, Mommy is Queen, Daddy is... oh, who cares? The woman will immerse herself in every possible aspect of the child's life, becoming the Helicopter Parent she is destined to be - for she has micromanaged every aspect of her life and the child's, even before the child was born. Daddy is not important; his genetic contribution seems so long ago and unimportant.

It is an attitude that denigrates men and does an enormous disservice to women. It drives a wedge between the parents of the children because of unrealistic assumptions about their respective roles and expected actions. It leads to attitudes of "I am a better parent than you because I have done XYZ prenatally and you have not." It's frightening. It needs to stop. If I were in charge, I would stand on a small soapbox and announce:

People: be normal. Certainly, enjoy the beauty of knowing that a new life is growing. But don't obsess so. It is unhealthy -- for you and your offspring. Truly.