As I write these words, sitting here 32-weeks pregnant and looking like I’m smuggling a basketball under my shirt, my thoughts turn to the path that led me to this moment. Although I still have a long way to go, the little shadow boxer in my uterus is going strong, and as I get larger, I find myself spending less time running around and more time cuddled up with my geriatric Lhasa Apso watching movies.

During my two years of trying to conceive, I started avoiding popular media. So many stories feature accidental pregnancies, planned pregnancies, surprise miscarriages, pregnancy scares, or a countless number of seemingly unrelated things that reminded me about my own lack of pregnancy. As I spent month after month peeing on a stick, my old friend, the cinema, started to feel like a minefield of pain. Even in my old favorites, long-forgotten pregnancy storylines would pop up and start me crying again.

After a series of very unpleasant doctor visits, tests, and calls to my insurance company, we decided to go forward with in vitro fertilization (IVF). Many injections later, it was finally the day of my egg retrieval. Trying to kill time in the hours before my appointment, I watched the film Strays (2023). If you’re ever trying to distract yourself from the first surgery of your life, I highly recommend a very crude comedy with talking dogs. It was a movie with absolutely no pregnancy story that did an excellent job of distracting me from everything. The final scene had me laughing so hard I cried, and upon watching it again, it had the exact same result. Of all things, Strays became the movie that reminded me of the magic of cinema. For a couple of glorious hours, I forgot about all the pain and discomfort and just cackled at a scruffy dog out for revenge. And so I started watching movies again

As our IVF journey continued, I had to consider a whole slew of questions that were never on the table when we were trying to conceive “the old-fashioned way.” There were genetic tests, chromosomal tests, the question of sex selection, and finally choosing an embryo (we were lucky enough to have seven healthy ones to choose from).

Although I read about the various tests offered, I mostly just said yes. I desperately wanted a healthy baby, and at 38, I felt like I was running out of time. I know the question of what makes a healthy baby is complicated. I immediately flashed back to my first undergrad film class watching Gattaca (1997) which explores a future in which people have the option of creating genetically optimal children, selecting for athleticism, intelligence, and looks. Of course, one child is born without all this tech and somehow defies all expectations. Probably not ideal IVF viewing, but I had to revisit it and was left feeling oddly unsettled by the whole process of choosing my embryo.

Our immediate concerns with all this testing were viability and cystic fibrosis (which runs in my husband’s family). It seemed simple, and my fertility clinic made it even simpler. They would not transfer or even store embryos with any indication of chromosomal abnormality. As straightforward as they may seem, these tests are not without their issues. The possible results are euploid (probably all good), aneuploid (probably has abnormalities), and mosaic (could go either way). My clinic would only deal with euploid embryos, although plenty of people have had successful pregnancies with mosaic embryos.

Yes, many early miscarriages are due to chromosomal abnormalities, but there are also chromosomal abnormalities that are compatible with a full and happy life. And yet, there was no picking or choosing. We were only permitted to work with what seemed to be chromosomally ideal embryos. But what about some of the “flawed” embryos? We didn’t get to hear about their flaws or evaluate potential quality of life, we just rejected these embryos that I had fought so hard to get. What was I losing when I rejected these potential children?

As I entered my second trimester (and the pregnancy finally started to feel real), they found a lump in my mother’s left breast. Biopsy, lumpectomy, and further testing showed that the lump had indeed been cancerous. Not only was it cancerous, but it was Triple Negative Breast Cancer (TNBC), which is concerning. Happily, they caught it early, but it has led to a battery of new tests. She’s currently waiting on her own genetic testing results to see if she has BRCA1 or BRCA2, two genes that significantly increase the odds of developing breast cancer and of the cancer recurring.

I’m also eagerly awaiting those results because the 200+ genetic conditions they checked me for did not include either of these. In an instant, I went from feeling like I was living in some dystopian sci-fi movie to fearing that I was a blind luddite who was dooming my child by not asking about even more extensive testing. I instantly dove down the rabbit hole and learned that there is in fact a startup offering much more comprehensive testing. They test an embryo's entire genome and highlight things like the obvious genetic disorders I did a carrier screening for, as well as things like BRCA1 and BRCA2, and polygenic “conditions” (like the odds of being obese).

Polygenic risk scores are complex statistical analyses that may be hard to understand for the average user. There are many, many risk factors for something like cancer. Genetics certainly plays a role, but that role is limited and not fully understood. The obvious question is, what do we lose when rejecting an embryo due to some of these polygenic risk factors? For potential answers to this question, I would again refer you to Gattaca. At the same time, maybe skip that one if you’re in the middle of IVF.

Once I was really and truly pregnant and dealing with all the hurdles of the first trimester, a very dear cinephile friend of mine recommended I watch the Marvel movie Venom (2018). Her recommendation track record remains excellent. For those unfamiliar with what some may inaccurately consider a lesser Marvel hero, Venom tells the story of Eddie Brock (played by Tom Hardy) a journalist who ends up being possessed by an alien lifeform named Venom due to a generic, evil, big tech company. They realize they can help each other: Venom makes Eddie immortal and gives him super strength, and Eddie makes it possible for Venom to live on Earth where he’s a big fish in a small pond. The two obviously save the world together in the end.

Watching Eddie deal with the nausea, pain, and exhaustion of being possessed by an alien was perhaps the best representation of pregnancy I’ve seen. As he leaned over the toilet asking “What is wrong with me?” I understood every single thing he was feeling.

Even more encouraging for someone in the midst of pregnancy was watching Eddie and Venom come to terms with one another. What began as a parasitic relationship became symbiotic and gave Eddie a superpower. I’m not sure my baby has given me a superpower yet, but random strangers at the grocery store are being extra kind to me and folks keep offering me chairs and encouraging me to eat ice cream, so that’s a start. The friend who recommended Venom to me promised that the sequel is a perfect representation of toddlerhood and I can’t wait to see it. Venom may not have changed me or the world, but I will say it’s a flick that made me feel seen in the weirdest way possible and distracted me from some of the nausea.

One of the things about being polyamorous, or belonging to any minority group, is that we are often left hunting for representation. What rare instances of visibility we find are often deeply flawed, but we cling to them anyway. And so I’ve watched the third installment in the Bridget Jones franchise, not once, but twice, in the last few months. Bridget Jones’s Baby (2016) is an underappreciated gem. For those of you who somehow missed this minor sequel, 43-year-old Bridget Jones (Renée Zellweger) is single again. For once, she seems to start the movie happy — she has a good job, friends, and isn’t dieting. At a music festival, she has a fling with tech billionaire Jack (Patrick Dempsey), and shortly thereafter she runs into a newly single Mark Darcy (Colin Firth), and has a night with him. Some ancient condoms lead to a surprise pregnancy and a surprisingly mature romantic comedy.

Both prospective fathers romance Bridget, the three attend birthing classes and OB appointments together, and although there’s some absurd rom-com drama, they all mostly work together to do what’s best for the baby. Ultimately, Bridget ends up in a monogamous relationship with the biological father, but the three adults remain close friends. Honestly, I was rooting for her ending up with one man and the other being the father, but we can’t have everything.

I live with my husband and my other partner. We’ll be raising this child together, and she will never not know both of her fathers. Unlike Bridget Jones, I won’t choose just one man to be my partner/father of my child, but it was still amazing to watch a movie even flirt with this concept. And for a very fluffy movie, it did it surprisingly well.

Entering the third trimester of my pregnancy has been incredible, but man do I feel ancient. At 39, I’ve gotten every extra ultrasound, every test, and seen every specialist. I keep passing with flying colors and while I know that plenty of women have perfectly healthy pregnancies at my age, every new ache or twinge makes me wonder if my body is meant to go through this. Seeing someone my age going through pregnancy in a happy rom-com was such a rare and pleasant surprise. On a side note, I really appreciate that this film allowed Renee Zellweger to look like a woman in her 40s, a gorgeous woman in her 40s, but in her 40s nonetheless.

This mainstream franchise did not give me a poly family storyline, but it was the only film I’ve seen that has a relatively angst-free happy woman and her two male partners become parents. Maybe that’s a low bar, but I’m full of hormones and Bridget Jones’s Baby hit me deep. Until someone sends me a happy poly family movie that isn’t all about processing and pain and feeling ostracized, I’ll continue returning to this escapist gem.

Anyone who’s ever told folks they’re carrying a female child in their uterus will be told repeatedly that this kid is bound to be beautiful when she grows up and adorable as a baby. Obviously, this is true, as all babies are adorable. Then the pink tidal wave starts. Folks you trusted to be sane will suddenly show up at your doorstep with tiny pink headbands, tiny pink dresses, tiny pink bows, and tiny pink shoes. Everyone is so excited to ponder her future appearance. When I think about this child, I obviously assume that I’ll be smitten with her, but I also think of myself as a little girl. There were years when I don’t think I owned a shirt that didn’t feature a dinosaur or a bug on it. I liked to play outside, had no patience for dresses, and my favorite color was green. Maybe this little girl will love pink bows, but let’s give her a chance.

Now when people start to talk about her inevitable beauty, I always say, “Yeah, she’s going to be so mighty!” Because that’s what I want for her. I want her to be strong, resilient, and confident. I want her to feel like she can be loud sometimes, like she can take up space, like she doesn’t have to apologize. I was thinking about characters that embody this and I keep going back to Mad Max: Fury Road (2015). When the film came out, I had an unlimited movie pass to our local movie theater (small-town charity auctions are awesome). I saw Fury Road three nights in a row in theaters. I was mesmerized. There are a million reasons why, but there was one scene I loved, possibly one of my favorite movie moments.

Furiosa (Charlize Theron) is smuggling the unwilling “wives” of the tyrant Immortan Joe (Hugh Keays-Byrne) to “the green place” where they can all be free. The chase is on, and the film features the most engrossing two-hour chase ever created — so engrossing that I forgot a small human was trying to punch her way out of me. At one point the Bullet Farmer (Richard Carter) is chasing them down. Mad Max (Tom Hardy again) drops to a knee, aiming at a single headlight in the mist. He has three shots left. He misses once, Furiosa glances over, he misses a second time, and she walks over. She hovers behind him like a backseat driver until he wordlessly hands her the gun. At this point, if she’d simply made the shot we all would have cheered, but it gets so much better. She props the weapon on Max’s shoulder and as he turns to look at her, she just says “Don’t breathe.” She makes the shot of course. We hear the ringing in his ears from it and the chase continues.

As a teaching assistant in film school, I read endless undergrad papers about the phallic nature of weapons, and although they weren’t wrong, it got a little tedious. But I have to say, having Max pass off the gun and then become furniture to support Furiosa’s shot is probably one of my favorite scenes ever. Furiosa doesn’t have to fight for her power, she is confident in herself and her ability. She’s committed to doing what it takes and she succeeds. Herd using Max in this way makes her seem rather ruthless, but in Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga (2024) we see Furiosa’s compassionate side. We learn the backstory that leads her to rescue the women of the harem. She didn’t have to become a hero, yet somehow she had the strength to maintain her humanity through intolerable cruelty. She chooses to rescue the women, but she still has the ability to trust Max, a total stranger, and accepts the sad warboy Nux (Nicholas Hoult) into their motley crew. In a dystopian, cut-throat future where most people choose selfish cruelty, Furiosa retains her humanity without sacrificing her power.

While I obviously hope my little girl has a brighter future than a post-apocalyptic Aussie hellscape, we're all confronted by our own battles and challenges in life. I hope she can face them with the compassion, grace, and kick-ass attitude of Furiosa. I’m sure she’ll be adorable. What baby isn’t? But I’m really banking on her being mighty.

When I started thinking about pregnancy movies, Alien (1979) seemed almost too obvious, and then I woke up suddenly at 5:30 a.m. this morning convinced that my little angel is trying to burst her way out through my abdomen, and probably break a few ribs on the way. I tried changing positions, propping myself up with pillows, gently prodding her, and even meditation — none of it helped. She was intent on making her presence known. I guess I got my wish for a mighty baby. So I laid in bed watching the morning light through the window replaying that scene from Alien over and over again in my mind. Is it clichéd? Absolutely. But also I’m not convinced that film isn’t a documentary. I’ll definitely be watching it tonight to confirm the accuracy.

Published July 1, 2024