{"id":125292,"date":"2018-05-11T10:40:53","date_gmt":"2018-05-11T14:40:53","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=125292"},"modified":"2018-05-11T12:52:34","modified_gmt":"2018-05-11T16:52:34","slug":"this-mothers-day-all-i-want-is-a-goddamn-drink","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/05\/11\/this-mothers-day-all-i-want-is-a-goddamn-drink\/","title":{"rendered":"All I Want for Mother\u2019s Day Is a Goddamn Drink"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

A tipsy Klimt<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

This Mother\u2019s Day, I’d like to raise a mocktail to all the mothers-to-be, to all of us united in suffering the joys and the indignities of pregnancy, stone-cold sober.<\/p>\n

As my own mother tells it, she knew she was pregnant with me, her firstborn, when she got disproportionately sick from one gin and tonic. When I, in turn, pushed away a glass of C\u00f4te de Beaune at the dinner table, I knew something was up. Now, twenty-one weeks in, I wish I could go back to that night, back when it still didn\u2019t count, and finish my glass of chardonnay.\u00a0What<\/em>\u00a0was I thinking? I just wasn\u2019t thinking.<\/p>\n

Halfway into my pregnancy, with another whole half to go, all I want to do is drink. I would give anything for a chilled glass of wine or an Aperol spritz or, hell, even a Heineken. It seems patently unfair that my partner can sit there drinking his Leffe, while I\u2019m consoling myself with a sparkling lemonade. It\u2019s especially bad when I go on Instagram, where it seems everyone these days spends their afternoons sipping\u00a0Negronis, ruby liquid shimmering in the new spring light. It\u2019s a beautiful spring day in Paris, but when I step outside, because I\u2019m not drinking, it feels like just another day. Why does an alcoholic beverage feel like the only way to celebrate the return of warm weather?<\/p>\n

France is to blame, as well as Instagram; I\u2019ve lived for nearly two decades in a country where the whole culture is organized around the consumption of alcohol in public places, no matter what the time of day. I decided to move here one morning in 1999 when, sitting in a sun-drenched town square on my junior year abroad, during an organized meet and greet with the local French university students, they ordered\u00a0demi-p\u00eaches<\/em>\u00a0<\/em>for us: half a pint of lager with a shot of peach syrup. \u201cAt\u00a0eleven A.M.<\/small>??\u201d we gasped, scandalized and seduced.<\/p>\n

But don\u2019t believe the hype\u2014that laissez-faire attitude stops the minute you learn you\u2019re pregnant. French doctors most emphatically do\u00a0not<\/em>\u00a0tell you it\u2019s okay to have a glass of wine every now and then. In the waiting room at the clinic where I\u2019m going to give birth, there\u2019s a poster of a fetus floating in a glass of red wine. Below it are written the words: WHEN YOU DRINK A LITTLE, YOUR BABY DRINKS A LOT<\/small>.<\/p>\n

Drinking is, at its best, a social activity, a collective one. But so is pregnancy\u2014you\u2019re never pregnant alone, you are pregnant along with every other woman who is or ever has been. There\u2019s strength in that. But it also means that we\u2019re all anxiously keeping watch over expectant mothers, defining ourselves or each other by the choices we make. Motherhood comes with enough judgment, and I don\u2019t want to open the who\u2019s-doing-what can of worms. I’m having a dry pregnancy, and that is no shade on anyone who hasn\u2019t, or didn\u2019t; it\u2019s just the only possible response I find I can make to the state I\u2019m in. No doubt I\u2019ve internalized the ways in which society is constantly trying to exert control over the female body, but I just can\u2019t see myself sitting somewhere with a big pregnant belly and a glass of wine in my hand. To me, it would feel unseemly, a step away from ripping into a pack of Marlboro Lights and smoking them one by one, in between bites of unpasteurized cheese. It doesn\u2019t matter that some studies show a glass of wine a week isn\u2019t really that harmful; they don\u2019t know for sure, and that\u2019s enough for me.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s not even the actual drink I\u2019m after. If it were about the alcohol itself, I might allow myself a tiny bit every now and then. But I don\u2019t just want a sip, I want the whole experience. I want to languish on a caf\u00e9 terrace with a glass of ros\u00e9 on the rocks, chatting with a friend, picking our way through the little dish of olives. I want to disengage from responsibility, to yield to easy sociability, to the heaviness in my bloodstream, relaxing into the heat. I want the freedom to enjoy, to detach. But getting pregnant is not about freedom. It\u2019s a parentheses, an intermediate period where the little one can never be left with his father for an afternoon\u2014he\u2019s on board, doing everything I do, drinking everything I drink.<\/p>\n

For a woman in her late thirties, getting pregnant is a triumph. But the long haul of pregnancy\u2014some aspects too slow, others too fast\u2014doesn\u2019t feel triumphant. It\u2019s a tiring series of choices, some major, some unbelievably minor: Should I have an epidural? Should we get this crib or that one? Can I have a toasted ham-and-cheese sandwich at the local coffee shop chain? It\u2019s as if we can\u2019t quite come to grips with the curb we\u2019ve placed on our own freedom and have to carry out these micro-negotiations with ourselves to prove we still have room to maneuver.<\/p>\n

It comes down to this: it\u2019s spring time, and I want to drink. I\u2019m pregnant, I\u2019m happy to have been able to conceive, I have no right to complain, but I want to\u00a0driiiiiink<\/em>. The act of becoming a parent has turned me into my own child. Perhaps it\u2019s good practice when I tell myself: No, Lauren, you can\u2019t have a drink. All the other boys and girls are drinking, I know, but you can\u2019t right now. You can have one later.\u00a0If you behave.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Lauren Elkin is the author of <\/em>Fl\u00e2neuse: Women Walk the City. She lives in Paris.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

  This Mother\u2019s Day, I’d like to raise a mocktail to all the mothers-to-be, to all of us united in suffering the joys and the indignities of pregnancy, stone-cold sober. As my own mother tells it, she knew she was pregnant with me, her firstborn, when she got disproportionately sick from one gin and tonic. 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