Chapter 3: Relatively

Sylvia Foster was putting most of her attention on the preparation of Saturday lunch in January ‘72. She was vaguely aware of her husband’s intermittent typing, though. The most recent pause was longer than most had been. Was he blocked? Instead, George said, “I think that’s it.”

“Great,” she replied. “I’ll copy it over. You can read the whole thing in a week or so. If it still hangs together, we’ll send it off.”

“You’re too indulgent. I’d hate to make you type it all over for a few late changes. You have your own teaching to do.”

Typing, even careful typing, was no great chore. “Well, I won’t type the whole thing over for minor changes. Just the changed pages. You need to put your best foot forward. This is really your first paper where you did the investigation alone.”

“It is? I could have sworn there was a sexy girl with me every night. Must have dreamed her -- not the first expedition where I had wet dreams about her.” It was nice that George thought of her as sexy. She spent all day in a classroom where the kids thought of her as maternal at best.

“I was in bed with you. I typed for you. You were alone in gathering the information.”

“Not even that’s totally true. You’re an anthropologist’s dream, and I don’t mean wet dream this time.”

Now was the time to tell him. “Well, you’ll have to do without me next trip. Should have thought of this when we were discussing my going off the pill.”

“Well, you might not take. You haven’t so far. And we did think of that. A child is more important.”

“I might not have so far.” And she might not; she had to keep reminding herself of that.

“Darling! You think... ?”

“I’m two days late. It’s happened before, but I feel...”

“Oh, dearest! Oh, darling. Oh, Sylvia. Oh!” Well, no need to worry about what George would feel about her when she stopped looking sexy.

“Oh.”

They kissed. He hugged her tight, first about her waist and then about her shoulders. He sprinkled her face with kisses.

“I warn you,” she said, “I’m not sure.”

“It doesn’t matter. Well, it matters, matters enormously, but it doesn’t affect the fact that I love you.”

“It doesn’t matter enormously right now,” she pointed out. “Whether I’m pregnant will matter enormously next summer.”

“I don’t need to go on an expedition every summer. Vrooman stayed here this year.”

She couldn’t let him do that. “You’re going! We decided. I’m not going with you.”

“Well, in that case, it’s time to start saying goodbye.” Silly man.

But she did enjoy his goodbye, which involved his kisses all over her body with special attention to her abdomen. “You’ll be disappointed if it’s not true,” she said.

“I might regret it’s not being true. I won’t regret these kisses.”

She enjoyed the kisses until she needed him. “Now, George,” she said, “now.”

When he got into position, she helped him in. At first, he treated her gingerly. Was she going to have to put up with that for the next nine months? Soon, though he was moving above her and in her firmly. Then he sped up. His motions excited her, took her up the hill. And, when she fell off into ecstasy, he thrust into her and against her. Then he was pulsing deep within her. When he was finished, he rolled off.

Before she could feel abandoned, though, he hugged her lightly. He was kissing her hair as her breathing returned to normal.

The next morning, George went to church with her. That was a celebration of sorts; he accompanied her less than half the time.

When she typed up the paper, it looked good to her. She had a few suggestions, as did his department chair. George had a few revisions of his own when he saw the whole thing.

Meanwhile, her period didn’t ambush her. George took to looking questioningly at her when they got together at the end of the day. She stuck her thumb up in answer. She was more certain every day; she could feel something happening down there.

After they sent off the paper to American Anthropologist, she made an appointment with a gynecologist. She asked him about risks to the baby.

“You’re going to have more problems with feeling exhausted,” he answered. “Your getting punched in the gut might hurt the fetus; falling down the stairs could. Generally, it’s inside you. If you don’t get hurt, it is doubly safe.”

“I was thinking about sex.”

“You can tell your husband anything you want. You’re my patient; he isn’t. But the truth is that I have never seen a case of intercourse harming a fetus directly. Infections, of course. Following anal intercourse with vaginal intercourse is always dangerous. You have two different sets of germs in the two localities.”

“We don’t do that.”

“Good. It’s dangerous to you. Generally, anything which is dangerous to you is more dangerous to the fetus. Ordinary venereal diseases, too. But direct injury is rare.

“At some point, you’ll find certain positions uncomfortable. Experiment. Use common sense. This isn’t the time to try out hanging from the chandelier or fisting, but you’ll be hurt before the fetus is. Sorry if that isn’t what you wanted to hear.”

“Really,” she told him, “that is good news.”

“I’m happy for you. One thing you have to foresee is that you’re building a new body inside your own. It takes the same nutrients that working physically does. Some special ones, and we’ll give you a pamphlet; but you’ll begin to feel more tired than you usually do from the same amount of work. Take that as a signal. Get the rest your body says it needs, not the rest you think should be enough. You may find yourself too tired for sex. That’s not rejecting your husband; that’s accepting your new limits.