When I began my PhD program, I knew there was a possibility that my husband and I would decide to have a child before I finished the program. I know that this sounds crazy to some. But when I decided to get my PhD, dragging my husband 10 hours away from a home that we both loved, I also decided that I was unwilling to put my entire life – and his – on hold for it. I would treat my PhD program like the job that it is and would allow my personal life some room to breathe. If my husband and I decided we were ready for children, I wouldn’t let the fact that I was in a PhD program hold me back.
[I should note that I would never have considered myself “ready” before taking my comprehensive exams. Life as a PhD student is simply too hectic and all-consuming up until that point.]
Once I started working on my dissertation, I felt like I was finally able to control my life (to an extent at least). I could limit the hours that I worked and control my life more than I could prior to that point.
My primary concern about becoming pregnant was how I would be perceived in my department. In my time there, numerous male PhD students had welcomed children, but I only knew one female student who had, and she was almost done with her degree – to the point that she wasn’t really producing any new work. And she had always sort of existed outside of the department, so her situation felt very different from mine.
Even (most) female professors seemed a bit a-maternal. Though many of them had children (particularly the older, more established professors), neither they nor the male professors often acknowledged themselves as parents while in the department, or at least not around students. It felt as if my department was a child-free zone.
[This is not to say, of course, that these professors didn’t love their children fiercely. The few I have seen interact with their children obviously do. But some antiquated notion of professionalism prevents them from acknowledging that aspect of their lives in the workplace.]
In fact, I was perhaps most terrified of telling my two closest friends in the program. Though they are both women of roughly my same age, both in committed relationships, they are also fiercely committed to their profession. [Look at that. See how I had already started imposing a them/me mentality? As though I was not fiercely committed to my profession by choosing to have a child.] Much to my relief, not only were they thrilled for me but they were also excited to be involved. They didn’t back away from me slowly because of my “condition.” They embraced me. Supported me. And even threw me a surprise baby shower. But they were the exception
I became pregnant in April, so by the time I was comfortable publicizing my pregnancy, it was the summer and I wasn’t teaching or, really, having any interaction with the department (aside from the friends mentioned above and a few others). So most of my fellow PhD students found out I was pregnant through Facebook. This was nice for me. Though many professed e-congratulations, I know from later interactions that they were confused and questioning whether or not my pregnancy was planned (a rather offensive question that would have never been considered if I were, say, an elementary school teacher). But I appreciated that I didn’t have to see their inevitable reactions.
By the time the fall semester started, I was five months pregnant. Though I wasn’t hugely pregnant by any standard, it was fairly obvious that something was going on. The only professor I intentionally told was my major professor, but (as these things do) word got around very quickly. And everyone was incredibly kind. But here’s the rub – they were too kind. Any biting professionalism, any effort to “push” me to success was gone. I was the pregnant one. Nobody ever asked me about my teaching or dissertation, though I worked on both through the end of the semester – one week before my daughter was born. People wanted to see ultrasound pictures instead of dissertation chapters. That professional compartmentalization had been broken by my eventually-too-big-to-ignore belly. But instead of de-compartmentalizing, I was expelled – treated as “other” within my profession.
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Perhaps because of this reaction, I refused to “hide” my pregnancy. (I’ve always been a bit of an obnoxious dissenter.) I wore the same clothes while in the department that I did in my personal life, which were the same kinds of clothes I wore before I was pregnant – jean trousers or slacks and blouses, nice shirts, and sweaters. Though I never wore anything particularly tight – that wasn’t my style before I was pregnant so it wasn’t my maternity style either – I also didn’t wear anything that hid my growing belly. I was able to wear non-maternity shirts throughout most of my pregnancy, but the maternity shirts I did wear had an above-the-belly waistline, drawing attention to the belly itself.
Though I’m sure it would be different for different people, I found wearing clothes that accentuated – or at least acknowledged – my pregnancy empowering. Despite my colleagues’ overly polite demeanors, I felt that my clothing choices were both professional and maternal, a sign that I could be (and was) both. I didn’t need to compartmentalize my life.
Of course, it’s easy to recognize the significance of this now. At the time, though, I was only staying true to myself. One of the most frustrating parts of pregnancy was how little control I had over that aspect of my life – the attitudes of my colleagues included. All I could do was continue to be myself – a woman who from the first day of her PhD program has striven to maintain a balance between her professional and personal life. I couldn’t change how my fellow students and professors reacted to my pregnancy, but I could be certain that the appearance I put forth accurately portrayed who I was – and am. My clothing choices, choices that very much mirrored my pre-pregnancy choices, helped me do that more than almost anything else I could have done.
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It seems important for me to note that the college students (mostly sophomores and juniors) that I taught while in the last four months of my pregnancy (read: very pregnant) had no problem with my being pregnant. Though they were questioning and curious before and after class – one class even made a game of picking a baby name out of each novel we read – they were able to maintain an appropriate student/teaching relationship during class (as well as during more private teaching moments, like during office hours). I had no students treat my differently because I was pregnant. I never felt like my authority was being questioned. Nor did I feel like my pregnancy had to be ignored to maintain my status in the classroom.
My point is that clearly this behavior – this compartmentalization of professionalism and parenthood – is a learned behavior, specific to academia (though I’m sure it is shared by other professions). If immature, occasionally obnoxious college students can treat a pregnant woman professionally, surely well-educated, successful college professors should be able to do the same. Right?
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I would like to say that things returned to normal when I started teaching again the following fall, 8 months after my daughter was born. But it hasn’t. If I take too long to meet a certain goal, I get the proverbial head pat and a knowing nod – “Well, you do have your daughter. I understand.” And while it may seem like a first world problem, that understanding would never be extended to my male/father counterparts. It feels demeaning that my motherhood is seen as an “excuse.”
While this may be a naïve belief, I truly think that this will be different at my next institution. Though I will still be a mother, they won’t have seen me pregnant – that bubble-bursting belly won’t exist there the way it does here. Unfortunately that means that I will be expected to compartmentalize my motherhood there the way that professors do here. I like to think that I will refuse to separate that portion of my life, but I feel like I won’t know until I’m in that situation. For now, though, I continue to balance my profession and parenthood without ignoring either one. It’s not easy, but it is – as my pregnancy experience demonstrated – extremely important.
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