While I sit here on the computer, finishing off the bag of Hint of Jalapeno Scoops, rubbing my belly and wishing Robby was home to get me whats left of the Thin Mints in the freezer, I started looking at this girl's honeymoon pictures on Facebook. I don't know why I would do that to myself but these days, anytime someone gets married and posts pictures of themselves in tiny bikinis at some exotic beach I can't help but stalking them a tidge. And, well, I hate them.
I hate them not because they are at an exotic, all inclusive resort being wined and dined. Oh no. I hate them for being tan and toned and in a tiny string bikini with their adoring husband by their side. If I put on a tiny string bikini on right now, the only thing my husband could do is help me fish out the strings from between one of my Grand Canyon-esque rolls before it became lost forever.
This is the same sentiment I feel for all the women on those pregnancy sites (cue daily pregnancy calendar which by the way has had some doozies lately - giving me an idea for another post) who complain about being twenty two weeks pregnant and not showing AT ALL. "I mean, I just want to outgrow my pre-pregnancy clothes before the end of my pregnancy!" I swear to you, I cannot make this stuff up. I wanted to responded, "SHUT UP B$*#@" but thought that would be a very un-Christian like thing to say so I just rolled my eyes and ate a Tootsie Roll.
You may be thinking - oh, Ashley, you have such a flair for the dramatic. You act as if you are a beached whale or something. Well, my doubtful friend, let me recount to you my first really awkward, everyone in the room is looking away at the conversation taking place, pregnant moment as it went down last week:
So, I walk into a meeting where most everyone knows I am pregnant and has seen me at some point during the pregnancy. They are all like, oh you are finally showing blah blah, saying those nice, polite things you say to a woman who just waddled from the parking lot into the room and is sweating from exertion. But this one woman, who I see maybe three times a year, looks at me and says, "Oh, when are you due?" I respond, June 30. She looks at me and says, seriously, like not kidding at all, "aww, are you having twins?" I respond with a polite chuckle and a "no, just one." She looks concerned for a second, and then informs me I have a ways to go before that baby gets here.
What do you say to this?! I know lady. I know have four more months which is sixteen more weeks (really seventeen weeks and two days, but who's counting) which is probably going to even out to twenty more pounds that I still have to gain. I know I should be careful because you still have to lose all that weight when the baby comes. I also know that for the first time in my life, I am eating dessert after every meal, barely breaking a sweat the one time a week I make it to the gym, and trying my best to convince myself that seventeen pounds in twenty two weeks is a completely normal and healthy addition to my scale - and rear.
And yes, I said it. SEVENTEEN POUNDS. Gasp! I have gained seventeen pounds. Not sure why everyone tries to hide how much weight they have gained. I mean obviously you can SEE it on my front side, and back side and both side sides for that matter. I might as well put a number to it. I might as well not be ashamed. I might as well change my approach the next time someone is confused by the fact that only one small child could possibly be growing in this gullet of mine. I am going with go along with it. Why yes, I am having twins. Thank you for asking. Yes, we are so surprised. No, they don't really run in our family. Yes, we do have their names picked out. Baby A is Wyatt Shelton Allen and and Baby B is Nabisco DoubleStuff Oreo. If I get really big, I might up the ante to us having triplets. Baby C could be named BaconCheeseburger N. Fries.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
When It All Doesn't Smell Like Roses
First things first...as you might have heard (which I am assuming you have, because if you are taking the time to read my blog, you probably are a really good friend or a stalker - either way, thanks, please continue, and I accept gifts) Robby and I are proud to announce Peanut now has a gender and a name. The Shim is a Him (thanks Crystal for this gem) and his name is Wyatt. Wyatt Shelton Allen to be precise. And yes, we are sure. I reassure you as to him being a him because both of my grandmothers questioned our certainty. One by asking if we were sure he had a peter and the other by wanting to know if we were sure he had a tallywhacker. I guess this stems back to when ultrasounds weren't quite as detailed as they used to be, but I am almost positive that what we saw was a peter/tallywhacker/baby boy part.
The whole "gender revelation sonogram appointment" is quite an odd experience. Or maybe its just because of what I do for a living - but I just felt a little perverse and twisted the whole time. I mean, we went in there and she starts showing the different body parts and measuring them. Here's the head, looks good; here's an arm, a kidney, his foot, blah blah blah. And you are just laying there wanting to scream SHUT UP AND SHOW ME THE GOODS ALREADY - I WANT TO SEE THE CROTCHAL REGION! THE CROTCH LADY, JUST SHOW ME MY CHILD'S GENITALIA FOR CRYING OUT LOUD.
But eventually, she did show us the crotch and the tallywhacker hanging out there on display. Its truly amazing because after all the hours of wondering and pondering and guessing and praying, I knew in that one instant, that I was supposed to have a little boy. And that his name would be Wyatt and he would be the most fun adventure I have ever embarked on.
NOTE: the following is the third sentimental thing you will read on my blog. Or maybe the fourth because that whole paragraph prior was pretty gushy I have to admit.
I actually got all giggly the other day driving to work thinking about my perfect little boy and thinking about all the times he is going to pee all over me. I am literally turning into R. Kelly right in front of you - I am looking forward to being peed on. And its going to happen because I have changed exactly one little boy diaper in my whole life...and guess what...he peed on me. And I don't mind in the least.
Now, back to the very serious topic of today's post. In honor of Valentine's Day, I think it is only appropriate to completely squash every romantic thought you might have had floating through your brain and inform you of the worst pregnancy symptom I have yet to come across. They don't warn you just how bad this symptom is, and its bad. Bad for you and everyone you love. Bad for your friends, coworkers, and complete strangers. So bad its just downright cruel. This is the only way to perfectly describe it:
**By the way, I found this imagine on a website entitled "motivational posters." I am not sure what this is motivating but I find its inclusion under this title disturbing. Now back to its significance.
Hmm, how can I put this delicately.....lemme think for a second. I got it! There are toxic fumes coming from my body that have actually knocked my sweet, dear husband to his knees. I am not making this up - he got up to attempt to run away from me and my noxious aroma and fell to his knees before hecould make a clean exit. I don't know what to do about it either - no matter what I eat, what I drink, what I do, I am incapable of stopping it. Its like a law of physics, the greater the mass my uterus takes up, the more disgusting the odors coming from my direction are.
My dogs won't even sit by me any more because they are embarrassed for me and tired of being blamed for the offending smells. So, whats a girl to do? I pull out my handy dandy What to Expect When Your Expecting book and look up "horribly offensive gas" in the index. It is not listed there but under the innocent listing of gas. I immediately know they do not appreciate the severity of the situation but read what they have to say anyway. And I read it to my husband as he writhes on the floor from the pain of it all, unable to find a unpolluted place to flee at this point.
And do you know what they have to say to me? Basically that your gassy, oh well, take comfort in the fact that your baby is probably comforted by the gas bubbles gurgling in your tummy. REALLY? Peanut (yes, he still goes by that) probably feels like he is in the middle of the Haitian earthquake with all the rumbling and grumbling going on in there. He is most likely trying to take cover under the nearest organ for safety. And really, do you think anyone else cares if my baby is comforted by my gas bubbles? Ask the fine folks on aisle seven at the Oxford Kroger. If they made it through the blast, they will tell you no, they are not comforted. Only traumatized, angry, and highly suspicious of the pregnant lady waddling very quickly towards the check out line with two boxes of Double Stuff Oreos and a gallon of ice cream.
The whole "gender revelation sonogram appointment" is quite an odd experience. Or maybe its just because of what I do for a living - but I just felt a little perverse and twisted the whole time. I mean, we went in there and she starts showing the different body parts and measuring them. Here's the head, looks good; here's an arm, a kidney, his foot, blah blah blah. And you are just laying there wanting to scream SHUT UP AND SHOW ME THE GOODS ALREADY - I WANT TO SEE THE CROTCHAL REGION! THE CROTCH LADY, JUST SHOW ME MY CHILD'S GENITALIA FOR CRYING OUT LOUD.
But eventually, she did show us the crotch and the tallywhacker hanging out there on display. Its truly amazing because after all the hours of wondering and pondering and guessing and praying, I knew in that one instant, that I was supposed to have a little boy. And that his name would be Wyatt and he would be the most fun adventure I have ever embarked on.
NOTE: the following is the third sentimental thing you will read on my blog. Or maybe the fourth because that whole paragraph prior was pretty gushy I have to admit.
I actually got all giggly the other day driving to work thinking about my perfect little boy and thinking about all the times he is going to pee all over me. I am literally turning into R. Kelly right in front of you - I am looking forward to being peed on. And its going to happen because I have changed exactly one little boy diaper in my whole life...and guess what...he peed on me. And I don't mind in the least.
Now, back to the very serious topic of today's post. In honor of Valentine's Day, I think it is only appropriate to completely squash every romantic thought you might have had floating through your brain and inform you of the worst pregnancy symptom I have yet to come across. They don't warn you just how bad this symptom is, and its bad. Bad for you and everyone you love. Bad for your friends, coworkers, and complete strangers. So bad its just downright cruel. This is the only way to perfectly describe it:
**By the way, I found this imagine on a website entitled "motivational posters." I am not sure what this is motivating but I find its inclusion under this title disturbing. Now back to its significance.
Hmm, how can I put this delicately.....lemme think for a second. I got it! There are toxic fumes coming from my body that have actually knocked my sweet, dear husband to his knees. I am not making this up - he got up to attempt to run away from me and my noxious aroma and fell to his knees before hecould make a clean exit. I don't know what to do about it either - no matter what I eat, what I drink, what I do, I am incapable of stopping it. Its like a law of physics, the greater the mass my uterus takes up, the more disgusting the odors coming from my direction are.
My dogs won't even sit by me any more because they are embarrassed for me and tired of being blamed for the offending smells. So, whats a girl to do? I pull out my handy dandy What to Expect When Your Expecting book and look up "horribly offensive gas" in the index. It is not listed there but under the innocent listing of gas. I immediately know they do not appreciate the severity of the situation but read what they have to say anyway. And I read it to my husband as he writhes on the floor from the pain of it all, unable to find a unpolluted place to flee at this point.
And do you know what they have to say to me? Basically that your gassy, oh well, take comfort in the fact that your baby is probably comforted by the gas bubbles gurgling in your tummy. REALLY? Peanut (yes, he still goes by that) probably feels like he is in the middle of the Haitian earthquake with all the rumbling and grumbling going on in there. He is most likely trying to take cover under the nearest organ for safety. And really, do you think anyone else cares if my baby is comforted by my gas bubbles? Ask the fine folks on aisle seven at the Oxford Kroger. If they made it through the blast, they will tell you no, they are not comforted. Only traumatized, angry, and highly suspicious of the pregnant lady waddling very quickly towards the check out line with two boxes of Double Stuff Oreos and a gallon of ice cream.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Post for Props ... and wishful thinking.
This past weekend I took my "Buying for Baby" spree to a whole new level. If you will recall, weekend before last I bought a rug and a mirror (which it turns out will not technically be for baby after all...it just looks too good in the dining room, sorry Peanut). Well this past weekend, I jumped in with both feet and bought the crib, the glider/ottoman, the bedding, and began the elusive search for the perfect dresser and bookcase. And now, the mad props go to: (pause for suspense building) Nursery Rhymes in Jackson with the hand holding and direction of Bethany - if any of you are pregnant or know someone who is pregnant (which you all do because I assume you know me if you are wasting your time reading this crap) you should really check this place out. They pretty much have the whole nursery/baby/cutesy thing completely figured out.
For example, I went in with one simple request: I do not want to wait until we find out what we are having to pick out baby bedding because I do not want a gender specific nursery and the only idea I have is this rug I bought and I want it (the nursery) fun, colorful, and comfortable.
*The husband says I have to make everything difficult because I am a liberal, hippy who has to be different and probably want to put peace signs and flowers on the wall. Only when you are designing a nursery would wanting to go neutral make you a tree hugging world changer.
So anyways, Bethany did an amazing job and somehow managed to pull together a delightfully cute nursery that does not scream "A BABY LIVES HERE" but also does not scream "AN IDIOT WHO HAS NEVER HAD A KID PICKED THIS STUFF OUT." Pictures to come...let me just say, Peanut is going to be a having diaper leakage on some pretty awesome bedding.
Now, as you can tell from the ever descriptive title of this post - the first part of this post was for props and the second was for wishful thinking. Last week, everything was rocking along so swellfully (yes I just made that word up) that I was beginning to think I would have to put on the rose colored glasses for good. But, lucky for me, the darker side of life came roaring back Saturday as I entered my now regular Jackson stop of Motherhood. I walked into the store to pick up some maternity leggings because the last time I put on my regular leggings I had an imprint of the elastic waistband on my gullet that lasted for three days. And I ended up having to take them off during the middle of the day at work - which of course leads to you wearing a sundress at work in January with white, pasty, kind of hairy legs. Its frowned upon in the legal community.
*The following recounting is worth reading for the simple fact that it is true and involves the fantasy of one large pregnant woman beating down a not so large pregnant woman. However, it will involve TMI (too much information for those of you not up on the latest Internet lingo) for some. This is my disclaimer.
So, into Motherhood I go to find a nice pair of leggings, and I pass a girl who is shopping in the jean section. She is one her phone and I hear her say I found some maternity jeans in here but they are $100 dollars. I think to myself, how sweet, that nice, skinny girl is shopping for maternity pants for her friend. Well I waddle past this nice, skinny girl and realize that the maternity bras are all on sale. As I look down at the poor, misshapen bra that once housed my normally sized, normally perky boobs I thought, well heck, I will get one.
Me and the skinny girl get to the dressing rooms at the same time. I have an assortment of bras is sizes I did not know existed and she has a pair of jeans. One pair of teeny tiny little jeans that I would not have been able to wear if I starved myself for a year, much less now that my rear has reached the back of knees. A flash of ugly thoughts races through my mind...."that twerp is in here buying maternity jeans for herself, but she isn't even showing, how dare she, I should force feed her bacon, etc, etc." You know the drill.
As I am trying on nice, sturdy bra after bra, I hear her say into her phone, "the extra smalls are just swallowing me. I just don't know when I will be able to fit into maternity jeans. I am in my big zeros in my regular jeans and I am just miserable. But the maternity jeans are just so huge." I have to quit listening a second to fish the clasp of a bra from the depths of a fat roll, and then tune back in....
"I mean I do feel skinny in all these maternity clothes, I mean I don't know who can even wear them." Okay now she's done it. I start to pull my size Large maternity top back on around this still too small maternity bra with the full intention of showing her just who wears these "maternity clothes" when the good-intentioned but ill-timed sales clerk yells through the dressing room curtain at me, "Try this bra, its our fullest coverage available, and I got you a bigger size. Many women find it helps get the breasts off the stomach and out from under the arms."
I wanted to sink into floor. But instead, skinny girl left to try a size two in non-maternity pants at Old Navy, I bought a bra that could literally be used as a raft for Cuban immigrants - a whole bunch of 'em - and some leggings and waddled to lunch. All that trying on had made me quite hungry.
For example, I went in with one simple request: I do not want to wait until we find out what we are having to pick out baby bedding because I do not want a gender specific nursery and the only idea I have is this rug I bought and I want it (the nursery) fun, colorful, and comfortable.
*The husband says I have to make everything difficult because I am a liberal, hippy who has to be different and probably want to put peace signs and flowers on the wall. Only when you are designing a nursery would wanting to go neutral make you a tree hugging world changer.
So anyways, Bethany did an amazing job and somehow managed to pull together a delightfully cute nursery that does not scream "A BABY LIVES HERE" but also does not scream "AN IDIOT WHO HAS NEVER HAD A KID PICKED THIS STUFF OUT." Pictures to come...let me just say, Peanut is going to be a having diaper leakage on some pretty awesome bedding.
Now, as you can tell from the ever descriptive title of this post - the first part of this post was for props and the second was for wishful thinking. Last week, everything was rocking along so swellfully (yes I just made that word up) that I was beginning to think I would have to put on the rose colored glasses for good. But, lucky for me, the darker side of life came roaring back Saturday as I entered my now regular Jackson stop of Motherhood. I walked into the store to pick up some maternity leggings because the last time I put on my regular leggings I had an imprint of the elastic waistband on my gullet that lasted for three days. And I ended up having to take them off during the middle of the day at work - which of course leads to you wearing a sundress at work in January with white, pasty, kind of hairy legs. Its frowned upon in the legal community.
*The following recounting is worth reading for the simple fact that it is true and involves the fantasy of one large pregnant woman beating down a not so large pregnant woman. However, it will involve TMI (too much information for those of you not up on the latest Internet lingo) for some. This is my disclaimer.
So, into Motherhood I go to find a nice pair of leggings, and I pass a girl who is shopping in the jean section. She is one her phone and I hear her say I found some maternity jeans in here but they are $100 dollars. I think to myself, how sweet, that nice, skinny girl is shopping for maternity pants for her friend. Well I waddle past this nice, skinny girl and realize that the maternity bras are all on sale. As I look down at the poor, misshapen bra that once housed my normally sized, normally perky boobs I thought, well heck, I will get one.
Me and the skinny girl get to the dressing rooms at the same time. I have an assortment of bras is sizes I did not know existed and she has a pair of jeans. One pair of teeny tiny little jeans that I would not have been able to wear if I starved myself for a year, much less now that my rear has reached the back of knees. A flash of ugly thoughts races through my mind...."that twerp is in here buying maternity jeans for herself, but she isn't even showing, how dare she, I should force feed her bacon, etc, etc." You know the drill.
As I am trying on nice, sturdy bra after bra, I hear her say into her phone, "the extra smalls are just swallowing me. I just don't know when I will be able to fit into maternity jeans. I am in my big zeros in my regular jeans and I am just miserable. But the maternity jeans are just so huge." I have to quit listening a second to fish the clasp of a bra from the depths of a fat roll, and then tune back in....
"I mean I do feel skinny in all these maternity clothes, I mean I don't know who can even wear them." Okay now she's done it. I start to pull my size Large maternity top back on around this still too small maternity bra with the full intention of showing her just who wears these "maternity clothes" when the good-intentioned but ill-timed sales clerk yells through the dressing room curtain at me, "Try this bra, its our fullest coverage available, and I got you a bigger size. Many women find it helps get the breasts off the stomach and out from under the arms."
I wanted to sink into floor. But instead, skinny girl left to try a size two in non-maternity pants at Old Navy, I bought a bra that could literally be used as a raft for Cuban immigrants - a whole bunch of 'em - and some leggings and waddled to lunch. All that trying on had made me quite hungry.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Writer's Block
I haven't written anything in like ten days. I usually try to write something at least once a week - for my sanity and for that day, a long time from now, when Peanut wants to learn how royally he/she screwed up my life for nine, long, hot, up hill both ways in the snow with no shoes, months. (Peanut: if you are reading this, I truly love you, I am very glad I got knocked up you were our little surprise miracle, and the things said on this blog are all true - so go take out the trash).
However, as most of the three of you that read this blog now know, I get a sick, twisted amusement from writing about the things that bug me, amaze me with their stupidity, or just strike me as something all three of you readers should share with me. However, for the last seven to ten days, absolutely nothing outrageous, irritating, or even really funny has happened. So instead, I will just quickly fill you in on whats been going down...
1. I broke up with my scale. I hate him, he hates me, and if one more person reminds me that I am pregnant and its natural to gain weight, I will break up with you too. Lemme explain it to you: for the past ten to fifteen years, one of my at least underlying concerns has been to not be a fat, fat, Fatty McFatterson. I mean everytime I read a magazine, got on Yahoo!, or flipped the channels I was sure to check out the latest lose five pounds in five days meal plan, exercise plan, life plan, or Spanx plan. I had a number in my mind I would never reach on the scale and, well, I reached that numbet at some point in college, bumped the number up ten pounds, and have now, all of a sudden surpassed that number. And my scale laughed at me. That evil Bwahahahaha type of laugh. And if everyone was down with the whole gain 65 pounds during your pregnancy thing, it might not be a big deal. But no, everything you read/hear is this magical 25-35 pound mark. Well, what about when you gain 4 in one week? OMG. If I continue to gain four pounds per week for the remaining 23 weeks I have, I will gain like eighty something pounds. But, as of this week, I have decided to no longer worry about this magical 25-35 pound number. Screw it. And screw my scale. I repeat: I hate you. I have always hated you. And I will not let you take the satisfaction I am currently getting out of Popeyes fried chicken away from me. This is the only time in my life that I can skip over every magazine article regarding weight loss or fitness and go right to the "15 Recipes Involving Butter and Bacon" article. Whew....I feel better. And rounder.
2. I bought something for my Peanut. Please note, I am refering to the fetus as MY Peanut. Almost like a term of endearment. See, I am a sweet, nuturing person. Take that 10th grade Home Ec teacher who chastised me for losing that durn egg baby. Twice. Its an egg. They get lost. And break. And maybe even hardboiled. Sometimes, just for fun. But, I digress. I went to see the wonderful lady at the baby nursery place in Jackson (Bethany at Nursery Rhymes if anyone is particulary interested or nosy) and she seemed a little dismayed that I did not have any ideas for my nursery nor was I particularly excited about starting to plan/buy/overindulge for my unborn child. She basically told me to get with the program, buy something for my child, and do it fast. Apparently twenty three weeks is not as long as it sounds. And apparently by week seventeen, most women have at least bought a sock or picture or something for their fetus. Not me. I mean, I am still buying for myself. Which leaves no time or money for the baby. I figure the he/she will take enough of my time and money in approximately twenty three weeks so why rush it? HOWEVER, Saturday, with the stern talking to from Bethany still on my mind, I ended up Play Pen. Never been in that store. Nothing too surprising - they have baby stuff for any of you who have always wondered. But anyways, I was flipping through some rugs because, well because they were just hanging there begging to be flipped through, and I ran across one that I liked. And it was on sale. And . . . I bought it. There you have it ladies and gentlemen. My baby has its very own rug - a rug that my husband was quick to point out is mostly white and will probably be ruined within the first year, but a rug nonetheless. This was quickly followed by a decision about my crib, the wall color, found a dresser I like, found a glider, an ottoman, and a bookcase. Oh, and I bought a mirror I found on clearance. Not sure if I am using it for the nursery or giving it to myself as a happy for buying something for my child. It would look really good in the guest bathroom. Old habits die hard I guess. Regardless, I got the whole nursery planned out in my head and still not real sure why everyone gets so freaked out by this nursery mess. I mean I planned the whole thing in like twenty minutes. And your putting a baby in there people. Its not like it knows how to talk to complain if he/she doesn't like it. But, I do have a plan and a plan that I think is relatively not bad. Now to find someone to pay for it....
3. My mother cleaned out her house to make room for the grandbaby. Which apparently means forcing everything you have ever left at her house (for the main reason of you not particularly wanting it but not wanting to throw it away either) on you. She sent me home with boxes of old photos, memorabilia, and the like. And so, tonight, I sat down and started going through it. It started out innocently enough - 8th grade dance, 9th grade homecoming, church camp. But then somewhere about halfway down in that box things got real. The older I got in the pictures, the more fun I seemed to be having. And pictures don't lie. I remember these things clearly - and I was really having a really really good time, I mean really. It bothers me a little that most of these pictures were from only about ten years ago, And there is a part of me, that would give anything to go back to that senior trip or the Neshoba County Fair or even that Jitney Jungle parking lot. And not really to do anything differently, just to do it again. I mean how did everything change in just ten years. I went from worried if the guy with the cool sunglasses would be at the field party Friday night to worried about tax refunds and episiotomies in less than ten years. But there is another part of me that is petrified. My parents are very smart/decent/good people. And I called to check tonight - I didn't get away with nearly as I would like to think I did. I think they just figured it was easier to let me make my own mistakes (most of which I have yet to regret) and hope for the best. But, I know what I have done and put my parents through over the past ten to fifteen years. And even worse, I know my husband was basically just as hard on his parents. So, does this mean that my child, my sweet little 7 inch baby is going to do this to me? Is he/she going to one day in like twenty-seven years go through a box of old photos and call me up just to say, "Sorry Mom for all that. I mean it was fun, but gosh I was dumb. Glad I made it out okay." The answer is no, and Peanut if you are reading this, the answer is no because you are never leaving the house. Now go get back in your bubble.
However, as most of the three of you that read this blog now know, I get a sick, twisted amusement from writing about the things that bug me, amaze me with their stupidity, or just strike me as something all three of you readers should share with me. However, for the last seven to ten days, absolutely nothing outrageous, irritating, or even really funny has happened. So instead, I will just quickly fill you in on whats been going down...
1. I broke up with my scale. I hate him, he hates me, and if one more person reminds me that I am pregnant and its natural to gain weight, I will break up with you too. Lemme explain it to you: for the past ten to fifteen years, one of my at least underlying concerns has been to not be a fat, fat, Fatty McFatterson. I mean everytime I read a magazine, got on Yahoo!, or flipped the channels I was sure to check out the latest lose five pounds in five days meal plan, exercise plan, life plan, or Spanx plan. I had a number in my mind I would never reach on the scale and, well, I reached that numbet at some point in college, bumped the number up ten pounds, and have now, all of a sudden surpassed that number. And my scale laughed at me. That evil Bwahahahaha type of laugh. And if everyone was down with the whole gain 65 pounds during your pregnancy thing, it might not be a big deal. But no, everything you read/hear is this magical 25-35 pound mark. Well, what about when you gain 4 in one week? OMG. If I continue to gain four pounds per week for the remaining 23 weeks I have, I will gain like eighty something pounds. But, as of this week, I have decided to no longer worry about this magical 25-35 pound number. Screw it. And screw my scale. I repeat: I hate you. I have always hated you. And I will not let you take the satisfaction I am currently getting out of Popeyes fried chicken away from me. This is the only time in my life that I can skip over every magazine article regarding weight loss or fitness and go right to the "15 Recipes Involving Butter and Bacon" article. Whew....I feel better. And rounder.
2. I bought something for my Peanut. Please note, I am refering to the fetus as MY Peanut. Almost like a term of endearment. See, I am a sweet, nuturing person. Take that 10th grade Home Ec teacher who chastised me for losing that durn egg baby. Twice. Its an egg. They get lost. And break. And maybe even hardboiled. Sometimes, just for fun. But, I digress. I went to see the wonderful lady at the baby nursery place in Jackson (Bethany at Nursery Rhymes if anyone is particulary interested or nosy) and she seemed a little dismayed that I did not have any ideas for my nursery nor was I particularly excited about starting to plan/buy/overindulge for my unborn child. She basically told me to get with the program, buy something for my child, and do it fast. Apparently twenty three weeks is not as long as it sounds. And apparently by week seventeen, most women have at least bought a sock or picture or something for their fetus. Not me. I mean, I am still buying for myself. Which leaves no time or money for the baby. I figure the he/she will take enough of my time and money in approximately twenty three weeks so why rush it? HOWEVER, Saturday, with the stern talking to from Bethany still on my mind, I ended up Play Pen. Never been in that store. Nothing too surprising - they have baby stuff for any of you who have always wondered. But anyways, I was flipping through some rugs because, well because they were just hanging there begging to be flipped through, and I ran across one that I liked. And it was on sale. And . . . I bought it. There you have it ladies and gentlemen. My baby has its very own rug - a rug that my husband was quick to point out is mostly white and will probably be ruined within the first year, but a rug nonetheless. This was quickly followed by a decision about my crib, the wall color, found a dresser I like, found a glider, an ottoman, and a bookcase. Oh, and I bought a mirror I found on clearance. Not sure if I am using it for the nursery or giving it to myself as a happy for buying something for my child. It would look really good in the guest bathroom. Old habits die hard I guess. Regardless, I got the whole nursery planned out in my head and still not real sure why everyone gets so freaked out by this nursery mess. I mean I planned the whole thing in like twenty minutes. And your putting a baby in there people. Its not like it knows how to talk to complain if he/she doesn't like it. But, I do have a plan and a plan that I think is relatively not bad. Now to find someone to pay for it....
3. My mother cleaned out her house to make room for the grandbaby. Which apparently means forcing everything you have ever left at her house (for the main reason of you not particularly wanting it but not wanting to throw it away either) on you. She sent me home with boxes of old photos, memorabilia, and the like. And so, tonight, I sat down and started going through it. It started out innocently enough - 8th grade dance, 9th grade homecoming, church camp. But then somewhere about halfway down in that box things got real. The older I got in the pictures, the more fun I seemed to be having. And pictures don't lie. I remember these things clearly - and I was really having a really really good time, I mean really. It bothers me a little that most of these pictures were from only about ten years ago, And there is a part of me, that would give anything to go back to that senior trip or the Neshoba County Fair or even that Jitney Jungle parking lot. And not really to do anything differently, just to do it again. I mean how did everything change in just ten years. I went from worried if the guy with the cool sunglasses would be at the field party Friday night to worried about tax refunds and episiotomies in less than ten years. But there is another part of me that is petrified. My parents are very smart/decent/good people. And I called to check tonight - I didn't get away with nearly as I would like to think I did. I think they just figured it was easier to let me make my own mistakes (most of which I have yet to regret) and hope for the best. But, I know what I have done and put my parents through over the past ten to fifteen years. And even worse, I know my husband was basically just as hard on his parents. So, does this mean that my child, my sweet little 7 inch baby is going to do this to me? Is he/she going to one day in like twenty-seven years go through a box of old photos and call me up just to say, "Sorry Mom for all that. I mean it was fun, but gosh I was dumb. Glad I made it out okay." The answer is no, and Peanut if you are reading this, the answer is no because you are never leaving the house. Now go get back in your bubble.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Vocabulary Lessons and Random Tidbits
Warning: this is an incredibly long and rambling post.
In the past almost three months, my life has changed dramatically. I know you are thinking, "well duh, you got yourself knocked up. Change was inevitable." And to this thought I can only agree with you. I knew the moment I sat my glass of wine down to pee on that stick and it started dinging and lighting up and singing the itsy bitsy spider my life was about to change. Forever.
*And no, this did not actually happen. Well the part about the wine did. All that actually happened on that stick was a little line popped up so fast I couldn't even get my drawers back up. (Which leads to one hopping around the bathroom with their pants around their ankles saying words that are not appropriate for this blog while scrambling to find that other pregnancy test and willing your bladder to give you just one more stream of pee.) However, I do feel that a positive pregnancy test should give you a little more than just a line to tell you everything in your life has changed, and you should begin your meltdown (or celebration depending on your frame of mind) immediately. A little clip from this song might would be an appropriate song for the EPT to sing when you are, in fact, pregnant:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U1R4rhY3qZ8 (give it to about the 27 second mark to start the song -its the only clip I could find, but it truly is worth your patience - in fact, I am changing this to my cell phone ring for Robby)
But, I ramble. Almost immediately everything started to change. That next day I went to this nurse practitioner I know and told her my predicament: I have had two positive pregnancy tests but I cannot be pregnant because I do not think I want to be pregnant quite yet so I am here for a professional, medical opinion. This, of course, leads to her and one of her nurses handing me cotton balls from that stereotypical glass container (they should really invest in some tissues) and asking me if they should "call someone" as I have my third complete meltdown in twelve hours.
But, I managed to pull it together and took all my paperwork home and began reading. And so began my still ongoing, almost daily, vocabulary lesson. I wanted to share a few with you.
First up: listeria. Before I became with child, I would have bet at least twenty bucks that Listeria was a country in Eastern Europe probably somewhere near the Czech Republic where nearly all of the women were named Natasha and their last names had lots of kszy's in them. However, listeria is actually a bacteria that is in seemingly everything, will kill you and your unborn child, and is the reason you cannot eat deli meat, unpasteurized cheeses (still not sure what all this entails) raw fish, and the list goes on and on and on. Now, some women get real freaked out by this whole listeria thing. I, on the other hand, took it as I should really try not to get food poisoning. Which, lucky for me, I have been trying to not get food poisoning my whole life because it sucks. So, well this one has been a pretty easy adjustment for me -
Second, minky dot.What a dumb word. I don't have an alternate definition for this word because I had never heard of it. Minky dot. Sure, I know what it is now and I will concede that there may be a little minky dot in my life (cue Mambo Number 5: " a little Minky Dot in my life" -- sorry I cannot help myself). But come on folks, lets call it something else. I have always called it that fuzzy fabric with the dots on. Which seems to get the point across. Minky dot. Ha.
Third, and for those of you who have never been pregnant read this very closely. It has changed my life forever. Episiotomy. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS IS? DO YOU? DO YOU???? Well if you do, and if you have had a baby, and had one of these, hats off to you my friend. For those of you who don't know, well I would love to let you just keep living in ignorance, but I simply cannot do this. Mostly because I am so completely freaked out that I want you to be as completely as uncomfortable as I am. An episiotomy is when the doctors CUT you from your vagina to your anus during childbirth. My friends say oh you want them to cut you or it tears. WHAAAT? That can tear? That can happen? This is worse than when I found out that people poop during labor. Oh my gosh. I cannot do this. I am not the kind of person who can take a ripping perineum (which could be vocabulary word 3a - its the medical term for the area between your whoo haa and your rear end). But, I have been researching this phenomenon extensively since I discovered its existence. Apparently, it grows back, to normal, with little to no complications or long standing effects on your body ---most of the time. Yes, most of the time. Because, of course, everyone knows a horror story. But I cannot concentrate on the possible after effects, side effects, or complications because I am too freaked out that this even happens. They should teach this to young girls in health class. Bet it would dramatically reduce teen pregnancies. Because this is more frightening to me than the prospect of actually raising the child.
I have to sign up for that epidural next week. If there is going to be ripping or cutting, I don't want to know about it.
Now, briefly on to a little lighter subject matter. Let me tell you what I did yesterday. I went grocery shopping. Spent 106 dollars at Kroger. And do you know what I did for the first time in my life????? I bought whatever I wanted. I did not even once look at the calories in any item I bought. Doritos? Sure, two bags please. And I am talking about the Blazing Buffalo and Cool Ranch kinds - no baked chips for me! Cookies? Why not? Two boxes of already made cookies, sugar cookie mix, icing, and while I was on that aisle, why not pick up some blueberry muffin mix, brownie mix, and oh! they have cornbread mix - I bet that would be good. Canned food aisle - no problem. I skipped the canned green beans and went straight to the rotel tomatoes - I would later gather Velveeta cheese, don't worry - and the Spaghettios and the Chef Boyardee. I can't wait. Also got stuff to make Hot Tomato Grits -
*As a side note, I tasted the hot tomato grits last weekend at Abby's baby shower. Rebecca, if you are reading this, this recipe has changed my life forever, and I have eaten it for at least one meal a day since then. Anything with bacon, cheddar cheese, and rotel tomatoes has to be good. Eat it with an apple on the side, and it is, well it is simply amazing.
Also amazing to me lately: the phenomenon of pickled foods. Which made up a significant portion of my 106 dollars at Kroger. I bought pickles, pickled jalapenos, pickled corn, pickled okra, pickle relish, and pepprocini peppers, and to top it all off, Ranch dressing. Because pickles topped with ranch dressing is the snack of true champions. I am almost positive of this.
While checking out, I felt so self-conscious about my basketful of junk food I found myself telling the check out girl that I was pregnant. To which, she told me she gained 96 pounds while she was pregnant (oh crap - should I put the cake mix back? maybe just get one bag of chips??) and didn't know she was pregnant until she was 4 months along because she never missed her period and was on birth control. Hmmm.
What is about the phenomenon of pregnancy that makes complete strangers think it is okay to discuss the presence or absence of their menstrual cycle with you at the checkout line in Kroger? More on this topic later.
In the past almost three months, my life has changed dramatically. I know you are thinking, "well duh, you got yourself knocked up. Change was inevitable." And to this thought I can only agree with you. I knew the moment I sat my glass of wine down to pee on that stick and it started dinging and lighting up and singing the itsy bitsy spider my life was about to change. Forever.
*And no, this did not actually happen. Well the part about the wine did. All that actually happened on that stick was a little line popped up so fast I couldn't even get my drawers back up. (Which leads to one hopping around the bathroom with their pants around their ankles saying words that are not appropriate for this blog while scrambling to find that other pregnancy test and willing your bladder to give you just one more stream of pee.) However, I do feel that a positive pregnancy test should give you a little more than just a line to tell you everything in your life has changed, and you should begin your meltdown (or celebration depending on your frame of mind) immediately. A little clip from this song might would be an appropriate song for the EPT to sing when you are, in fact, pregnant:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U1R4rhY3qZ8 (give it to about the 27 second mark to start the song -its the only clip I could find, but it truly is worth your patience - in fact, I am changing this to my cell phone ring for Robby)
But, I ramble. Almost immediately everything started to change. That next day I went to this nurse practitioner I know and told her my predicament: I have had two positive pregnancy tests but I cannot be pregnant because I do not think I want to be pregnant quite yet so I am here for a professional, medical opinion. This, of course, leads to her and one of her nurses handing me cotton balls from that stereotypical glass container (they should really invest in some tissues) and asking me if they should "call someone" as I have my third complete meltdown in twelve hours.
But, I managed to pull it together and took all my paperwork home and began reading. And so began my still ongoing, almost daily, vocabulary lesson. I wanted to share a few with you.
First up: listeria. Before I became with child, I would have bet at least twenty bucks that Listeria was a country in Eastern Europe probably somewhere near the Czech Republic where nearly all of the women were named Natasha and their last names had lots of kszy's in them. However, listeria is actually a bacteria that is in seemingly everything, will kill you and your unborn child, and is the reason you cannot eat deli meat, unpasteurized cheeses (still not sure what all this entails) raw fish, and the list goes on and on and on. Now, some women get real freaked out by this whole listeria thing. I, on the other hand, took it as I should really try not to get food poisoning. Which, lucky for me, I have been trying to not get food poisoning my whole life because it sucks. So, well this one has been a pretty easy adjustment for me -
Second, minky dot.What a dumb word. I don't have an alternate definition for this word because I had never heard of it. Minky dot. Sure, I know what it is now and I will concede that there may be a little minky dot in my life (cue Mambo Number 5: " a little Minky Dot in my life" -- sorry I cannot help myself). But come on folks, lets call it something else. I have always called it that fuzzy fabric with the dots on. Which seems to get the point across. Minky dot. Ha.
Third, and for those of you who have never been pregnant read this very closely. It has changed my life forever. Episiotomy. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS IS? DO YOU? DO YOU???? Well if you do, and if you have had a baby, and had one of these, hats off to you my friend. For those of you who don't know, well I would love to let you just keep living in ignorance, but I simply cannot do this. Mostly because I am so completely freaked out that I want you to be as completely as uncomfortable as I am. An episiotomy is when the doctors CUT you from your vagina to your anus during childbirth. My friends say oh you want them to cut you or it tears. WHAAAT? That can tear? That can happen? This is worse than when I found out that people poop during labor. Oh my gosh. I cannot do this. I am not the kind of person who can take a ripping perineum (which could be vocabulary word 3a - its the medical term for the area between your whoo haa and your rear end). But, I have been researching this phenomenon extensively since I discovered its existence. Apparently, it grows back, to normal, with little to no complications or long standing effects on your body ---most of the time. Yes, most of the time. Because, of course, everyone knows a horror story. But I cannot concentrate on the possible after effects, side effects, or complications because I am too freaked out that this even happens. They should teach this to young girls in health class. Bet it would dramatically reduce teen pregnancies. Because this is more frightening to me than the prospect of actually raising the child.
I have to sign up for that epidural next week. If there is going to be ripping or cutting, I don't want to know about it.
Now, briefly on to a little lighter subject matter. Let me tell you what I did yesterday. I went grocery shopping. Spent 106 dollars at Kroger. And do you know what I did for the first time in my life????? I bought whatever I wanted. I did not even once look at the calories in any item I bought. Doritos? Sure, two bags please. And I am talking about the Blazing Buffalo and Cool Ranch kinds - no baked chips for me! Cookies? Why not? Two boxes of already made cookies, sugar cookie mix, icing, and while I was on that aisle, why not pick up some blueberry muffin mix, brownie mix, and oh! they have cornbread mix - I bet that would be good. Canned food aisle - no problem. I skipped the canned green beans and went straight to the rotel tomatoes - I would later gather Velveeta cheese, don't worry - and the Spaghettios and the Chef Boyardee. I can't wait. Also got stuff to make Hot Tomato Grits -
*As a side note, I tasted the hot tomato grits last weekend at Abby's baby shower. Rebecca, if you are reading this, this recipe has changed my life forever, and I have eaten it for at least one meal a day since then. Anything with bacon, cheddar cheese, and rotel tomatoes has to be good. Eat it with an apple on the side, and it is, well it is simply amazing.
Also amazing to me lately: the phenomenon of pickled foods. Which made up a significant portion of my 106 dollars at Kroger. I bought pickles, pickled jalapenos, pickled corn, pickled okra, pickle relish, and pepprocini peppers, and to top it all off, Ranch dressing. Because pickles topped with ranch dressing is the snack of true champions. I am almost positive of this.
While checking out, I felt so self-conscious about my basketful of junk food I found myself telling the check out girl that I was pregnant. To which, she told me she gained 96 pounds while she was pregnant (oh crap - should I put the cake mix back? maybe just get one bag of chips??) and didn't know she was pregnant until she was 4 months along because she never missed her period and was on birth control. Hmmm.
What is about the phenomenon of pregnancy that makes complete strangers think it is okay to discuss the presence or absence of their menstrual cycle with you at the checkout line in Kroger? More on this topic later.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
I'm Busting Out - and I want the world to know ....
This past weekend I spent a lovely day doing the baby thing. Started out the a.m. at a baby shower for a friend (congrats Abby - the baby shower was wonderful!) and then went to meet my mom to do an assortment of baby stuff. Most importantly on her list: finding baby bedding to complete the "Baby's Room" (which was once, and still technically is, my room, but my importance in the room seems to be diminishing at about the same speed my belly is growing).
Most important on my list: buying pants. And oh did I buy pants. I bought black pants and gray pants and green pants and brown pants and khaki pants. And they were all glorious. Each of them had wonderful, expandable, sewn in belly panels. For those of you not understanding the importance of this...please read the previous post. They all fit without circulation being cut off to lower extremities and none of them are in any risk of falling down in a public place. I may never go back to non-maternity pants. Ever.
Now, while I was in the last dressing room of the day, shoving myself into my non-maternity jeggings wishing I could wear a pair of my new, panelled pants out of the store I notice something quite embarrassing - my shirt had a hole in it. And not like a "oh darn I snagged my shirt on a nail and didn't realize it" kind of hole. No friend. A "I am busting out of the seem of my shirt - like literally the seams are ripping apart" kind of hole. Freaking great. I get the whole pant situation taken care of but now the top half of my wardrobe is ripping open - literally. Oh, and even better. I have been all over the greater Jackson area with the seams of my shirt ripped open. Which led me to this....an image I am scared I will be resembling by June. She should really invest in a full belly panel.
As you seen, she has decided to forgo sleeves all together. Which is smart. You don't want to mangle the sleeves ...
So I think...well crap. Guess I need to get some maternity shirts. But wait. Wait one little second. THIS IS A MATERNITY SHIRT. Good gosh o'mighty. I am ripping open maternity shirts. And I am fifteen weeks pregnant. I am going to have to buy a Coleman Tent to wear for the next five months. I make that guy (see above) look like an amateur. He has muscles to rip open his shirt. I just needed my sausage arms. And an apparent lack of treadmill time. And a baby the size of an apple.
I walked around with a shirt ripped open all day. At a baby shower. At Target. At Motherhood. At lunch. But, lets this this through. Maybe I don't have to buy a tent right off the bat. Perhaps I can invest in a MuuMuu. I googled them. You can totally still buy these stylish items of yesteryear. Found a website. $1.99 shipping. I like this little number in particular. Its got sass.
But now, after a few days of reflection and clarity, I have decided to wait on the tent/muu muu purchase. Perhaps it was just a manufacturer's defect in my ripped-arm shirt. Perhaps, I could just ask someone who knows how to sew to do what they do and fix my shirt and stitch it a little tighter this time. PERHAPS I should go buy (and then eat ) an entire jar of olives immediately. Because I am almost positive you should be rewarded for ripping open a shirt at only fifteen weeks pregnant. Its hard to do. Or so I hear.
Oh yeah, speaking of being fifteen weeks pregnant. I forget, I am supposed to be documenting my pregnancy. Writing about the joys of impending motherhood so Peanut can come back one day and read about just how excited we were about it's/his/her arrival. Right, right, right. Okay, lets see . . . an actual update.
Well I went to the doctor last week and got to hear its/his/her heartbeat. Which the doc said was perfect. I think her exact words were something like "you have a strong, healthy baby in there." I wanted to tell her it was from all the bacon I had been eating, but didn't think she really cared. But hearing good news about your child's heart is always reassuring. AND ....we now have a date set for the gender release party - February 9. I am excited to be able to drop the whole it/him/her/shim game. Feel like I am at a bad tranny drag show that just won't end.
Stay tuned.
Most important on my list: buying pants. And oh did I buy pants. I bought black pants and gray pants and green pants and brown pants and khaki pants. And they were all glorious. Each of them had wonderful, expandable, sewn in belly panels. For those of you not understanding the importance of this...please read the previous post. They all fit without circulation being cut off to lower extremities and none of them are in any risk of falling down in a public place. I may never go back to non-maternity pants. Ever.
Now, while I was in the last dressing room of the day, shoving myself into my non-maternity jeggings wishing I could wear a pair of my new, panelled pants out of the store I notice something quite embarrassing - my shirt had a hole in it. And not like a "oh darn I snagged my shirt on a nail and didn't realize it" kind of hole. No friend. A "I am busting out of the seem of my shirt - like literally the seams are ripping apart" kind of hole. Freaking great. I get the whole pant situation taken care of but now the top half of my wardrobe is ripping open - literally. Oh, and even better. I have been all over the greater Jackson area with the seams of my shirt ripped open. Which led me to this....an image I am scared I will be resembling by June. She should really invest in a full belly panel.
As you seen, she has decided to forgo sleeves all together. Which is smart. You don't want to mangle the sleeves ...
So I think...well crap. Guess I need to get some maternity shirts. But wait. Wait one little second. THIS IS A MATERNITY SHIRT. Good gosh o'mighty. I am ripping open maternity shirts. And I am fifteen weeks pregnant. I am going to have to buy a Coleman Tent to wear for the next five months. I make that guy (see above) look like an amateur. He has muscles to rip open his shirt. I just needed my sausage arms. And an apparent lack of treadmill time. And a baby the size of an apple.
I walked around with a shirt ripped open all day. At a baby shower. At Target. At Motherhood. At lunch. But, lets this this through. Maybe I don't have to buy a tent right off the bat. Perhaps I can invest in a MuuMuu. I googled them. You can totally still buy these stylish items of yesteryear. Found a website. $1.99 shipping. I like this little number in particular. Its got sass.
But now, after a few days of reflection and clarity, I have decided to wait on the tent/muu muu purchase. Perhaps it was just a manufacturer's defect in my ripped-arm shirt. Perhaps, I could just ask someone who knows how to sew to do what they do and fix my shirt and stitch it a little tighter this time. PERHAPS I should go buy (and then eat ) an entire jar of olives immediately. Because I am almost positive you should be rewarded for ripping open a shirt at only fifteen weeks pregnant. Its hard to do. Or so I hear.
Oh yeah, speaking of being fifteen weeks pregnant. I forget, I am supposed to be documenting my pregnancy. Writing about the joys of impending motherhood so Peanut can come back one day and read about just how excited we were about it's/his/her arrival. Right, right, right. Okay, lets see . . . an actual update.
Well I went to the doctor last week and got to hear its/his/her heartbeat. Which the doc said was perfect. I think her exact words were something like "you have a strong, healthy baby in there." I wanted to tell her it was from all the bacon I had been eating, but didn't think she really cared. But hearing good news about your child's heart is always reassuring. AND ....we now have a date set for the gender release party - February 9. I am excited to be able to drop the whole it/him/her/shim game. Feel like I am at a bad tranny drag show that just won't end.
Stay tuned.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
The Band
Before I begin, a quick update: Yesterday, my daily pregnancy calendar stated: "Mom may find her skin drier during pregnancy. Lotions may help." And no they do not have a comment section for me to thank them for their informative posts. I checked.
Now, on to serious business. When I was 20, if I someone had asked me, "have you heard about the band?" I would have responded with the following phrases/concerns, "I already got tickets to the next show" "Do you still have your fake ID?" "I am wearing my yellow and blue patchwork skirt" and possibly "Do you think they will be selling grilled cheeses in the lot afterwards?"
Now, a mere seven years later, I write this with a sigh, a little smile, and a story that has nothing to do with grilled cheese and hippies.
As the number of pants in the category "Things that Still Fit" continue to dwindle, I decided to buy a Band. A Belly Band to be exact. If you know what this is, please do not judge my inability to cope with parenthood. If you don't - let me paint you a picture. Imagine your tightest pair of Spanx with the crotch and legs missing. More like a bandeau top made out of Spanx material. Now imagine that you are going to use this contraption to "extend the wear of your non-maternity pants until the very end of your pregnancy."
Sounds good right? Yeah, well that's what I thought too. So the other day, I put a pair of slacks that were not longer buttoning and decided, what the heck - I'll give it a try. So off I go to a long day in court with nothing but the Belly Band separating my new, size huge, Haynes her Way undies from the world.
Well, apparently, they should include some freaking directions with this Chinese torture device. Because here I am in the middle of the courtroom and I feel the sinking (literally) sensation that my pants are slowly sagging. And then I realize with horror that my damn Belly Band has rolled up to the belt loops of my pants, my zipper is slowly unzipping a little further with every breath I take, and my pants are literally two breaths from falling down to around my ankles.
Whats a girl to do? I have on a tunic that is keeping my tighty whities under wraps at the moment, but for some reason I think that when my dimply, unshaven thighs are glaring at the mass of people behind me, someone, just someone might notice.
So, I slowly lower my arms to my sides as tightly as I can, clenching my pants up mildly effectively, and do a cross between a waddle and a shuffle to the nearest bathroom with the mumbled excuse of "you know pregnant ladies, always gotta pee." Once there I rip the thing off, and then realize well crap I can't button my pants but I can't very well not button them either. Sooo, I end up just putting the durn Belly Band back on above the now repositioned slacks and hoped for the best.
In case you were wondering what happened....well the same thing kept happening until lunch when I joyously ran home, put on a jogging suit, and made up the excuse of mad paperwork in the office to avoid having to go back to the courtroom for the rest of the day.
I am going this weekend to buy bigger pants.
Now, on to serious business. When I was 20, if I someone had asked me, "have you heard about the band?" I would have responded with the following phrases/concerns, "I already got tickets to the next show" "Do you still have your fake ID?" "I am wearing my yellow and blue patchwork skirt" and possibly "Do you think they will be selling grilled cheeses in the lot afterwards?"
Now, a mere seven years later, I write this with a sigh, a little smile, and a story that has nothing to do with grilled cheese and hippies.
As the number of pants in the category "Things that Still Fit" continue to dwindle, I decided to buy a Band. A Belly Band to be exact. If you know what this is, please do not judge my inability to cope with parenthood. If you don't - let me paint you a picture. Imagine your tightest pair of Spanx with the crotch and legs missing. More like a bandeau top made out of Spanx material. Now imagine that you are going to use this contraption to "extend the wear of your non-maternity pants until the very end of your pregnancy."
Sounds good right? Yeah, well that's what I thought too. So the other day, I put a pair of slacks that were not longer buttoning and decided, what the heck - I'll give it a try. So off I go to a long day in court with nothing but the Belly Band separating my new, size huge, Haynes her Way undies from the world.
Well, apparently, they should include some freaking directions with this Chinese torture device. Because here I am in the middle of the courtroom and I feel the sinking (literally) sensation that my pants are slowly sagging. And then I realize with horror that my damn Belly Band has rolled up to the belt loops of my pants, my zipper is slowly unzipping a little further with every breath I take, and my pants are literally two breaths from falling down to around my ankles.
Whats a girl to do? I have on a tunic that is keeping my tighty whities under wraps at the moment, but for some reason I think that when my dimply, unshaven thighs are glaring at the mass of people behind me, someone, just someone might notice.
So, I slowly lower my arms to my sides as tightly as I can, clenching my pants up mildly effectively, and do a cross between a waddle and a shuffle to the nearest bathroom with the mumbled excuse of "you know pregnant ladies, always gotta pee." Once there I rip the thing off, and then realize well crap I can't button my pants but I can't very well not button them either. Sooo, I end up just putting the durn Belly Band back on above the now repositioned slacks and hoped for the best.
In case you were wondering what happened....well the same thing kept happening until lunch when I joyously ran home, put on a jogging suit, and made up the excuse of mad paperwork in the office to avoid having to go back to the courtroom for the rest of the day.
I am going this weekend to buy bigger pants.
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