What may at first feel to her like a claim made by the fetus slowly transforms into something else: a claim made upon her by people who may not know or care about her or her baby, but who have an interest in keeping her under external control. From the moment she is aware of it, and whether she likes it or not, that other life, that second heartbeat, seems to lay claim to her consciousness, her choices, and her identity. This is true well before and regardless of whether a woman ever becomes pregnant-an adolescent girl may become the object of the male gaze, with its sexualized scrutiny and possessive power, before she realizes anyone is watching-but it becomes more intensely true when another heart beats inside of her. To be a woman is to not belong entirely to one’s self.
Biking became, though not quite impossible, increasingly inefficient and uncomfortable. Soon after that, when I was about thirty-two weeks pregnant, my knees started to bump into my belly. Maybe I should just lie on the couch until my due date, when they can cut the baby out of me.” Maybe I should stop driving-and walking, too. “That could happen when I’m driving,” I said, “or walking across the street. “Fine,” he replied, “but you could get hit by a car.”
“Why would I lose my balance?” I shot back. When I told my husband about her comment, he delicately suggested that maybe it was time to stop biking: “What if you lose your balance? You might fall and land on your belly.” One evening a physician colleague saw me climbing onto my bike after work and admonished me, “You’ve got to give it up!” When I was pregnant with my first child, I rode my bicycle well into my third trimester, grateful for the weightless ease of wheels on pavement, the breeze on my face and neck.
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