By Ashlee Gadd
@ashleegadd

No sushi. No soft cheese. No deli meat. 

This much I knew, in addition to the obvious: no alcohol. My sister-in-law had recently passed on a paper bag filled with every pregnancy book one could imagine. I skimmed them all, taking mental notes on the dos and don’ts of my new important role. I’d always been a good student, a proficient test-taker. For the first several weeks of pregnancy, I followed the rules to a T—I cut back on caffeine, drank more water, and avoided all no-no foods like the plague.

But then, one day, I became … hungry. 

I’m talking deeply, profoundly, à la the-very-hungry-caterpillar kind of hungry. I ate a bowl of cereal, but I was still hungry. Fixed a cup of yogurt with granola, but I was still hungry. Slathered a bagel with cream cheese, but I was still hungry. I could not think of anything I wanted more than a turkey sandwich. 

Down the Google rabbit hole I went. 

Pregnancy + deli meat. 
What will happen if a pregnant woman eats deli meat? 
Pregnancy safe sandwiches.
Pregnancy deli meat hacks.

I sat on the couch, legs criss-crossed under my laptop, scrolling and scrolling and scrolling looking for a loophole—any loophole—that would tell me it was okay to eat a turkey sandwich. The more I scrolled, the more confused I became. Some experts said the consumption of deli meat could lead to listeria, which could lead to a host of truly horrific outcomes. No deli meat under any circumstances, the article warned. I pored through mom forums where multiple women stated their own doctors had told them this wasn’t true, that it’s mostly a myth and your odds of contracting listeriosis are very small and not to sweat it. One report said older women and those with medical conditions were the ones who needed to take the most serious precautions. One article said as long as you microwave the deli meat, you’d probably be fine. 

Am I a horrible mother for even considering this?
Also, I wonder what kind of bread the deli has today?

My stomach growled while I continued to scroll, desperately seeking any semblance of a virtual permission slip. I took numbers and statistics from various graphs, attempting math in my head, trying to figure out my odds of actually getting sick or doing harm to my unborn baby. Is it higher or lower than my likelihood of getting in a car accident driving to the grocery store? Higher or lower than being struck by lightning? 

I thought of the movie Along Came Polly, where Ben Stiller’s character is a Risk Analyst. His entire job involves calculating (and minimizing) risks for other people. At that moment, sitting on the couch conducting thirty minutes of research on whether or not it was okay to eat a turkey sandwich while pregnant—it occurred to me: motherhood doesn’t come with a risk analyst. 

We have to become our own. 

***  

“I’ve tried calling a few times, but your voicemail is full.”

My husband rolls his eyes at me over the speaker phone. I don’t tell her my voicemail is full on purpose, so people can’t leave me more voicemails. 

“We noticed you didn’t fill out the survey ...” she continues. 

I cringe. Ahh, yes, the survey. I’m sure it’s buried somewhere in my inbox, along with reminders about the PTA take-out fundraiser, the dentist, the overdue library books. Shoot, did I have jury duty last week?

“I’m sorry about that, I completely forgot,” I tell her. 

“It’s fine. We just need to know: if school resumes in January, do you plan to send your children back to the classrooms?”

***

I considered emailing my doctor about the sandwich*, but I didn’t want to be That Girl. I texted a friend instead, one further along in her motherhood journey who already had two kids. She promptly told me I should “give the baby what it wants.” 

There was no doubt in my mind: my baby wanted a turkey sandwich.

Ten minutes later, I walked through the doors at Nugget Market, straight to the deli department. 

“Can I help you, ma’am?” the young man asked behind the counter. 

For a moment, I contemplated whether or not to ask him more about their meat carving procedures, if he’s ever known someone to contract listeriosis from one of their sandwiches. 

“Ma’am?” he asked again, snapping me out of my own paranoia. 

“Sorry, um, I just want a … turkey sandwich? Build-your-own style?”

He nodded and asked what kind of bread and I stuck to my regular rule: if the sandwich roll is not half the size of your head, you’re doing it wrong

“Sourdough roll, please,” I told him.

He followed my directions for the rest: light garlic mayo, cheddar cheese, mixed greens, red onion, pepperoncinis. He topped it off with salt and pepper, wrapped it in paper, added a price sticker—$8.99—and slid it across the top of the counter toward me.

“Have a nice day,” he smiled. 

Oh I will, I smiled back. Thanks to you. 

With a bag of Cheetos and a Diet Dr. Pepper in hand, I paid for my food and drove home, where I enjoyed every bite of that sandwich sitting on my couch in complete silence. 

Finally, I no longer felt hungry. 

***

In the end, the decision is made for us. We opt to send our kids back to the classroom, and four weeks later, the school district calls again. They leave a voicemail on my husband’s phone, because, naturally, mine is still full. 

“To protect the health and safety of students, staff and community, the return to in-person learning is being postponed until health data improves.”

I feel a mixture of sadness (my poor kids!), exhaustion (I’m so tired of living this way!), panic (how will I keep working in 2021?!) and deep down in bones, a teeny tiny twinge of relief. 

One less risk to calculate.

I’ve been a mother for eight and a half years, and I’ve been calculating risks nine months longer than that. For me, it started with the turkey sandwich and hasn’t stopped since. Unlike the sandwich, though, the stakes feel higher these days. They involve more than just my body, my baby—they include our parents, our grandparents, our teachers, and society as a whole. Do we go to the grocery store, or opt for delivery? Do we send the kids to their classrooms, or keep them home? Do we let the neighbor kids play together in the yard? Do we keep our masks on at the park? 

I’m reading the news, looking at statistics, once again attempting complex math in my head. But the data is changing every day. How can we stay safe? Best protect the fragile among us? Maintain our mental and emotional health while starved for connection? I catch myself clenching my teeth, my fists. Trying to hold my life, my family, in the palms of my hands, plotting how I can wrap them in bubble wrap and drench them in hand-sanitizer until this is over. 

In the worst parts of 2020, I imagined 2021 as a bright light, a fresh start, the year we’d wake up from this nightmare. Yet, here we are. Still calculating dozens of risks on a daily basis.

When it gets quiet, when I make space away from the news and social media, God reminds me to surrender. To open my fists. To unclench my teeth. To keep assessing the risks, of course—that’s what mothers do—but to remember what is mine to carry, and to give Him the rest. 

I’m reminded of the quote: “To love is to risk. Therefore, to love is to be brave.”

All over the world mothers are navigating this confusing time, acting as full-time risk analysts and loving their children through it all. May we remember that as we walk through 2021 together. May we continue to love, and continue to be brave. May we keep humility and grace at the forefront as we make hard decisions, second-guess those decisions, and slowly open our fists despite our rapid-beating hearts.

*If you are pregnant, please consult your doctor about any nutrition concerns you may have. This essay is not intended to offer medical advice.