Bridget Phetasy

During the Q&A portion of a Jordan Peterson lecture I recently attended, host Konstantin Kisin presented a question from the audience: “My son was just born. How do I know how to be a father if I didn’t have a father? What makes a great father?” I’ve been thinking about that question ever since. As someone who spends entirely too much time online viewing the virtual culture wars play out on X/Twitter, I’ve noticed no one has more to say about relationships and raising children than the unmarried, childless peanut gallery that occupies the “manosphere.” Like every online genre, the loose collection of blogs, podcasts, forums and websites that constitute the manosphere exist on a spectrum.

"Why do I feel like I got hit by a bus?” I ask my husband first thing upon opening my eyes. “Because we have a two-year-old — and we’re eighty,” he says. “I was told kids keep you young,” I say to no one. My husband is already gone, making coffee. We aren’t eighty, but there are days that it feels like it. In 2022, for the first time ever, the median age of a first-time mother in the United States hit the ripe old age of thirty. I was forty-three when I had my daughter and, let me tell you, there is a reason we are biologically wired to have kids in our youth. Having kids is a young person’s game. You’re made aware of this the minute you get pregnant if you’re over the age of thirty-five.

I’m reflecting on the good, the bad and the surprising of my first year in Texas. I took a huge risk moving my business and my family away from California. How has it gone? I had a tough entry into my new life. Moving is insanely stressful. So much so that when I arrived in Texas after a cross-country move with a tot, something was wrong with my stomach. I’d never had debilitating stomach pain before and I figured it would just resolve itself. When it didn’t after about a week, my husband suggested calling a Teledoc, who advised me to get to the ER immediately after hearing my symptoms. After fifteen years in Los Angeles, and thanks to a family member who worked in healthcare, I used to have access to some of the best doctors in the world.

Pundits and YouTubers these days love to warn of the inevitable civil war, as they sit in their comfortable, air-conditioned home studios, sowing division and unrest. And it is true: in recent years, America has faced a growing epidemic that threatens not only the health of its citizens but also the stability of society. But it’s not right versus left: it’s Dunkin’ versus Krispy Kreme, battling for the soul of America. Our nation’s obesity crisis has reached alarming levels, with a significant portion of the population struggling with weight-related issues. However, I’d argue the physical limitations of an overweight nation could be the very thing that saves us from ourselves.

I’ve started and stopped three articles, written 1,500 words and hated every single one. This column was due days ago and I’ve been stuck. Completely blocked. I’m not sure if it’s one thing or many things — and sometimes the only way through writer’s block is to sit down and write all the jumbled, disconnected thoughts that are jamming me up. So I will start this piece and end this year with an apology to my editor and to you, dear reader. There is the thought that stands in the way of every other thought — and because I refuse to put horrifically graphic images in your head while you sip your coffee, I’ll let you fill in the blanks yourself. But the thought goes something like: “Hamas did X and Y and Z and I’m supposed to write or care about anything else?

There is a lot of talk about “Real America” these days: what it means, who populates it and what those people represent. Is it the “coastal elites” who inhabit the cities? Is it the people in the “flyover states”? The commentators doing the talking and writing about these mythical Real Americans and their concerns are usually very wealthy. At the very least, they’re flying business or first class. Many of them fly private. To me, Real America is the middle seat in coach. I’ve always loved chatting with people when I travel. (Yes, I’m one of “those people” but don’t worry, I can take a hint.) My ex-husband recently passed away and I was headed home for a thirty-six-hour trip to attend his funeral.

The first time I ever heard the term “vaccine injury” was when I was in rehab aged nineteen. One of the women who was living at the halfway house — we’ll call her Jane — lost her son and blamed the vaccine he’d had that morning. Jane said he was fine, got the vaccine and then dropped dead on the playground later that day. This was almost twenty-five years ago, so the details are fuzzy. I don’t remember how old her son was; I don’t remember what vaccine — but I do remember that story. Everyone told Jane she was crazy, including all the doctors and her husband. She and her husband split up and she drank herself into oblivion and near death.

Had you told me when I quit drinking that one decade into sobriety I’d be a suburban Texas mom, I probably would have kept drinking. A friend and I were recently talking and I said, “I don’t know, a part of me feels like I’m giving up, moving to the suburbs.” She laughed and said, “That’s what the suburbs are — surrender.” The suburbs in all their sameness and picket-fenced perfection represented a life I never wanted — with their Live, Laugh, Love Etsy signs and swingers. They weren’t for eccentric artists or messed-up comedians. They were for sorority girls and women who loved game nights and crafts and the Bible and botox parties.

Moving sucks. It’s hard on your body, mind and wallet. It’s stressful — so much so that people consistently report it in the top ten most stressful events of their life. There are a million moving parts, a never-ending to-do list. Cross state lines and that list gets even longer. The List haunts you the entire time you pack, inexplicably growing with every item you check off. Packing supplies. Call movers to get quotes. Logistics: how are we getting the cars there? Shipping? Driving? The dog should drive. The baby should fly. I moved almost every year and a half growing up, so the sound of packing tape gives me PTSD. When that sound made my eleven-month-old daughter cry, I became a believer in generational trauma.

Like so many wannabe actors before me, I came to this gritty city with big dreams of “making it” in Tinseltown. I thought I wanted to be an actress until I got here and realized that driving around begging casting directors for approval wasn’t for me. Nonetheless, I stayed in Los Angeles — and over the last sixteen years, this big, messy, giant suburban sprawl has become a part of me. My husband and I have agonized over the decision of whether to stay or go. Making a cost-benefit analysis — like whether to stay near family in perfect weather or go where we can provide a better quality of life for our daughter in a place with unbearable heat — has felt like trying to solve an impossible math equation.

As I approach my daughter’s first birthday this month, I’m reflecting on what it’s been like to become a mom so late in the game — and the thousands of lessons I’ve learned. A lot of people have carried me through pregnancy and the first year: my husband, for one, has been a rock. His mother and stepfather. My aunt and uncle. They’ve all shown up for us in ways we didn’t even know we would need, with home-cooked meals when I was in the newborn bubble, with baby care so we could work or sleep or unwind. However, nothing has carried me quite like the groupchat a friend started in my first trimester. This friend had her second child on the way and realized three of us were pregnant all within months of one another, so she started the chat.