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It's like this, and like that....

I started this blog in an effort to track my experiences with pregnancy and beyond. Writing is therapeutic. Kind of like talking to myself without the people in WalMart thinking I'm crazy. If you find some entertainment in this along the way, then even better!

This is one woman's journey through unfathomable hunger, vivid sex dreams and a bulging belly...from conception to birth in 9 months or less...

Glamourous Pregnancy? I don't think so.....

Friday, October 9, 2009
I wanted to wear pregnancy with grace and glamour. The way you wear a vintage scarf or that really cool necklace your great grandmother left you. I wanted to remain my stylish self, with the flare for accessorizing and the need to stay ahead of the trends. I had great plans to dress myself in flattering fabrics, bright and interesting patterns and this season’s hottest colour palate. I really did. And that was great, until I realized, I am no longer the fashionista I once was.

And this is not due to a choice I made. Well, I suppose it is. I did choose to impregnate myself with a miniature version of 50% me and 50% of my husband. I did choose to turn my body over to the scientific miracle that is gestation of another human, moving weekly through the various produce comparisons (I’m up to an avocado right now in case anyone’s in the mood for a sandwich) but, what I did not choose was to be forced into fashion victimization by this miracle taking up residence in my abdomen.

You see, as my little miracle continues to grow and develop (and I do fully enjoy each and every moment this baby spends in there, growing and developing – hopefully into an extremely good looking, well adjusted human being who is going to save the world with the invention of a new form of energy while simultaneously winning literary awards and cooking like a Michelin level chef), it also pushed my once flat tummy out farther and farther. Now this is not a rant about getting fat. So far, I’ve enjoyed watching my once svelte body turn rounder and change with the growth of my baby. It’s truly a miracle, and looking back at my weekly photos, it’s also not as slow a progression as it seems from the outside. But with this newly rounded (and sure to get MUCH rounder) belly, comes the challenge of dressing this new form.

I had the misconceived notion that the move from regular clothes would be both seamless and swift. However, I neglected to consider what is known as the “in-between period”. You see, my regular clothes are getting tighter and less comfortable. All my sexy, nice ass, skinny jeans are now tucked away in a drawer I hope to once again need access to. There is just no way I can justify cramming my baby into pants that only just fit before I got knocked up. So one would think I was free to move onto the few pieces of maternity clothes I purchased 45 seconds after peeing on the stick. Unfortunately, this is not so. Those clothes are still too big, and that pants give me worse plumber butt than a gangsta rap wanna be. The shirts fit nicely everywhere, except the stomach, where they hang lifeless, like a half inflated balloon looking for air.

So I’m stuck between a hot and a cute place. A place known as buying stuff one size too big and wearing an invention known as the belly band.

I am sure belly bands are where it is at. Everyone says so. You just put it on and voila, you can walk around all day with your pants undone, and it is considered socially acceptable. What it doesn’t do is make me feel like I look good. I just feel like I look like my pants are too small and I’m trying to hide it – which is exactly what is going on. Also, I take issue with the fact that I'm walking around with my pants undone. I don't know why, I guess I've just been trained not to parade around half dressed in public (private is a different matter). 

Now the one size bigger clothing, this seems to work. Except, while it fits the belly, it looks a little ridiculous everywhere else. My shoulders and ribcage have not expanded, and neither has my ass. Just my belly. So draping giant pieces of fabric over the bony features I’m so used to flaunting does nothing for my glamour level. Except maybe kill it deader than the skunk I saw on the, road this morning. To boot, I’m still wearing leggings and such that used to fit me perfectly and stretching them out. This has the unfortunate side effect of creating what I like to call the front wedgie. I’ll let you figure that out for yourself.

Finally, to my stretchy wonderful skirts and dresses, which I love so dearly and can still comfortably wear, the problem with you is your length. Now I suppose that’s not YOUR problem, but my bellies. Because since the belly sticks OUT farther, the fabric pulls up, making the front of the skirt Paris Hilton short, which is not appropriate for a 29 year old any day, let alone a pregnant one.

And you know, it gets better.

I don’t know if anyone has spent any time LOOKING at maternity clothes in stores these days, but I just have one question – what the eff are they thinking?

Seriously? Since when does being pregnant mean I instantly need to graduate to washed out mom jeans that give you flat ass, and patterns and fabrics that must have been purchased at a Dress Barn inventory sell off sale. Not only do I have to go from chic to eeck, I have to do it in floral pattern blouses and flannel tops (and I’m not talking the cute ones that are all the rage these days, I’m talking get yer plow out, we’re bailing hay flannel). I also have to do it in layers of smelly acetate that will only work to accentuate the fact that the pants under the shirt are threatening to sever my body in half.

Now I supposed I could go boutique maternity shopping, buying $300 jeans and equally pricey tops and jackets, but I’m no Duggar and I don’t plan to be pregnant for the next 3 years let alone 19, so why would I need to spend so much on my interim wardrobe? Let’s face it, I don’t spend that much on my regular wardrobe?

So I’m stuck. I’m stuck here; waiting to find the mecca of mat, hoping that one day things will once again fit or look like they do, and I can get back to the glamour I once dreamed of. I see cute, well dressed pregnant ladies all the time, but I’m convinced they make their own clothes. And I don’t know how to sew a button on, let alone a giant lycra panel into a pair of old pants.

I really did think pregnancy and glamour could work together in tandem, taking me through this journey in my life, to motherhood, while allowing me to maintain an ounce of my former self. But I am starting to wonder if this cruel and unusual punishment of cheap ugly tops and ill fitting pants is designed to force my life to change in advance of the arrival of my little one. And I mean change more than the fact I have not had a beer or martini in well over 3 months time.

It’s a small price to pay for my child, and of course I’m doing it without an ounce of regret. But I can’t help but wonder why it is this way? I’ve theorized that maternity clothes are made for the masses, the ones who live their lives in suburban trailer parks and identical planned community row homes, pumping out baby after baby in an attempt to build there own soccer team. And if this is the case, then it’s probably ok, because those people like to shop at dress barn anyway. But for us city dwellers, the hideous options for this 10 month period (yes, pregnancy is 10 months, they lie) are a little harder to swallow than those peanut sized pre-natal vitamins I am taking twice daily. 

And to my horror, I’ve recently learned that many women’s feet grow an ENTIRE size during their pregnancy (and they don’t shrink back), which means, I’m not only giving up my stylish clothes, but also my ENTIRE shoe collection….which I’ve spent YEARS amassing. Much longer than it takes to gestate this baby!

So, if you see me on the street, (I'll be the one in a giant sweater dress that is too short in the front, limping painfully down the street in my stylish, yet snug knee high boots) feel free to question my choice of outfit. I may look like I let a blind donkey dress me, but it's the only thing I can wear. 

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