Please excuse the slight interruption in the regularly scheduled book releases, because I, Lila Dubois, am pregnant. (yikes! and yay! but yikes!)
Up till now Romance Novels have been a fairly good guide to life. I married a cute Irish Farm boy that I’m madly in love with, my best friends insist on giving advice while drinking, and if I were to have a murderous stalker I have no doubt I’d end up with some hot FBI agent guard. Who would somehow also secretly be my husband. Because…plot.
But romance novels are full of LIES as far as being pregnant. A vaguely upset stomach one morning makes the heroine realize she hasn’t had her period in a few months? Besides the obvious “get a damned tracking app for that shit, dummy” problem with that, let’s talk about how this bitch clearly got to skip most of the grim, grim first trimester. Where is the heroine tearing up and ranting for two pages because her boobs hurt so bad she’s seriously considering becoming a nudist rather than put on clothes? Or the one where rather than throwing up daintily once the heroine throws up all day, every day. Or the fiber pills they’ll have to take three times a day because being pregnant fucks with your digestion?
I also call bullshit on hidden baby plots. Let’s say I had decided to hide my pregnancy from my man. How the hell would that work? Who would go buy me popsicles on demand? Not me, the grocery store is full of FOOD and FOOD SMELLS. Hells. No. I don’t even go near refrigerators.
I would have lasted two days keeping it a secret, then I would have called that fucker on the phone. “Yea, I’m pregnant. Biology, am I right? Anyway, consider yourself an on-demand popsicle delivery service. Yea, I don’t care that you’re a spy with a traumatic past. Ask how many fucks I give about that right now? BTW it’s zero. Zero fucks. Bring me a popsicle.”
I guess I can give heroines in historicals a pass, but I now 100% support the idea that while pregnant a woman should be in “confinement.” That sounds like you don’t have to go anywhere or do anything. SIGN ME UP. You could lock yourself in a room and have servants on call to bring you whatever the historical equivalent of popsicles were? YES PLEASE. Your hansom hubby wouldn’t be sitting on the bathroom floor googling morning sickness cures while you dry heave and spit, that would be some hapless servant, and maybe someone who’d had a kid who could tell you what to do. This would also save you from face timing your mother/Rhian Cahill/Mari Carr and tearfully asking what the hell you were supposed to do.
I realize I sound both whiny and ungrateful. Let me say that I am so grateful that I was able to get pregnant, and I know what a blessing that is. It’s just that knowing it’s a beautiful miracle etc doesn’t stop me from wanting to whine about how crappy I feel. I never said I was a good person.