The Waiting Game

The mother-to-be, as limned in the great glossy pages of ladies' magazines, is a veritable vision of delight. She is tastefully referred to as The Lady in Waiting, even occasionally as A Sacred Vessel; never said to be pregnant, she is merely awaiting The Experience. While awaiting, she does marvelous things like work in the garden; in her superbly tailored slacks and shirt, she looks jaunty enough for a cruise; nothing could ever make her nauseated. Or she finishes the velvet slippers she is whipping up for Dad; all embroidery done during The Period of Expectancy is performed under the pale light of a cut-glass chandelier, in a full-length chiffon hostess gown, no matter that it's the middle of the day. Or she shows three-year-old Junior the bassinet being readied for Baby; Junior, never having heard of sibling rivalry or displacement, smiles as he runs his freshly scrubbed hands over the imported organdy flounces that Mummy can have laundered for not more than $50.

Nothing Indelicate. As for Mummy herself, she remains rosy-cheeked, good-humored and dashingly dressed throughout, with nary a swollen ankle or an extra pound of weight to trouble her. There is no question but that her gentle gestation will terminate in the totally painless birth of a perfect, silky-haired baby who, like Mother, will never be bothered by anything so indelicate as diaper rash or colic.

The reality is different. If mother-to-be looks particularly rosy, chances are that the cause is not inner radiance but an in creased metabolic rate. If she has fallen for that bassinet smothered with well-starched frills, she would do well to have a plain old basket standing by should it ever become necessary for the child actually to go to sleep. And if, throughout the nine months of her pregnancy, the mother-to-be remains as slim and svelte as she appears in the magazines, then it is possible that what she is expecting is a paycheck rather than a baby, and that she is no mother but a fashion model.

Something Neutral. As for her clothes, unless she is prepared to shell out a large amount of cash for an entire wardrobe that she will never want to see again after its term of service, she will most likely settle for wearing her friends' maternity dresses. When, feeling particularly hand-me-down, she does venture out to buy something of her own, she is relegated to a small area of the department store. There the choice is limited and the service generally offered with an air first of suspicion ("This is the maternity department; it is for women who are expecting babies") and then of condescension; the customer's assurance of her eligibility is looked upon as an admission of carrying not a baby but a dread disease ("I think, in your condition and looking the way you do, you'd be better off in some neutral shade"). It is just about impossible to buy in any department but maternity; no matter how adequate the dress found on a different floor, it is there "for the regular customers," and the salesladies are wont to hint that the expectant mother has breached good taste simply by appearing out of the designated confines. It is occasionally suggested that she go home.

There remains only the bus ride, where few sacred vessels are ever offered seats, and the final trek on swollen ankles to the comfort of the living room couch. There, feet up and the day's housework still to do, the mother-to-be can scan again the picture books that tell her to make the most of this precious, pampered time.

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