Britni de la Cretaz

The first trimester is not normal. The first trimester is hell. The first trimester is vomiting in trash cans, falling asleep sitting up, sore breasts, perpetual nausea, hella strong food aversions, extreme mood swings, and crying because your partner ate your taco; all while not looking or feeling pregnant.

When my husband and I looked at the screen in the ultrasound room and saw that we were having a girl, we both breathed a sigh of relief. Not because we didn’t want to have a boy, but because it meant the circumcision debate was off the table.

When I first got sober, I was resistant to a lot of the things I was hearing in 12-step communities and recovery circles. I’ve always been a feminist and much of the rhetoric I was hearing seemed to go against everything I stood for.

Don’t read the comments! Is a common refrain in almost anything on the Internet, and with good reason. And when it comes to breastfeeding, the comments make it clear that we have a long way to go — even among feminists.

My husband never, ever drives thru a fast food restaurant because it’s easier, and instead makes it back to the house and gives our daughter something that WILL grow mold if left out too long, unlike the McDonald’s hamburger I would have let her have.

Women have changed their last names from their father’s to their new husband’s — a tradition that used to symbolize the transfer of “property” from one man to another. That property, of course, was the virgin bride. Many people will argue that it no longer has that implication, but for me, as a feminist, partaking in a tradition that is so rooted in the literal oppression of women is something that left an incredibly bad taste in my mouth.

There’s nothing wrong with moms who decide to go for a stereotypical “mom cut.” If they like it, or if it makes their lives easier, that’s fantastic. Personally, my hair after I had children remained just as important to me as it was before I had them. My hair has always been a huge part of my identity — candy-colored, funky, and so totally me.

The first time I remember learning what a safeword was, I was sitting in my college dorm, devouring blogs about kink and BDSM. It all seemed so foreign to me, a teenager who couldn’t imagine real people doing any of the taboo things these blogs talked about.

I stared at the picture of her sitting in the courtroom sobbing; I read the news stories, and I cried, too. As a sexual assault survivor myself, I felt a lot of things in that moment. Above all, the ruling was a reminder to me that, as a woman, I do not matter. Not in the eyes of society, not in the eyes of the law. It was a reminder that I do not deserve safety, nor will I be guaranteed it. It was a reminder that my body is not mine, and it never has been.