Tuesday, October 18th, 2011
Due to time and energy constraints, projects must be tackled in small increments, so everything is only partially done. Which means that there are tubs of baby clothes in the living room, stacks of used infant gear in the dining room, half-finished cabinets in both the foyer and laundry room, and general messes in each and every room. Because why fry the small fish when the bigger ones remain significantly less than half fried? Oh, it’ll all get fried eventually. Apply the nesting instinct to my perfectionist tendencies and the fact that we’ll be hosting Thanksgiving for around twenty, and it’s practically guaranteed.
I’ve been a little obsessed with outfitting myself in attractive yet comfortable maternity wear. I work from home, so it’s always a challenge to, you know, shower. Apply makeup. Put on clothes not involving stained cotton and an elasticized waistband. As I’m sure you can imagine, pregnancy did not magically make these challenges easier.
No, the bigger I get, and the more aches and pains that set in, the harder it is to resist complete comfort. But! Also! The bigger I get, the frumpier I feel, and the more compelled I am to make an effort. Try a new lip color. Shave my legs. Shower before noon. Put on some decent, freshly washed clothing, for cripessake. Which is to say, 25 weeks has me upping my style game. Only after I wrote that did I realize how sad it is that I just referred to adopting basic daily hygiene and wearing clean clothes as “style.”
Since I am cheap, I refuse to drop hundreds on clothes I’ll wear for a few months. So I craigslist, ebay and thrift store it up. One of my best friends owns the coolest vintage clothing store in town, and she’s been kind enough to stock me in some key pregnancy-friendly scores. And Old Navy Maternity is the best for inexpensive basics. Things are coming together nicely.
So nicely, in fact, that my 25-week gussy-up sparked my first-ever compliment from Roy. I was wearing a comfortable new maternity dress, and a flowered cardigan—nothing too crazy, but a far cry from my usual sweats-and-tee uniform. He looked me up and down and said, “Mama, fancy clothes. Flowers nice.” Little love. I nearly cried.
Meanwhile, on the inside of my body, his sister—the size of a rutabaga, they tell me—is moving around like crazy. Man, I love those little thumps and nudges and knocks. I’m pretending she’s energized by my uncharacteristic wardrobe binge and all the many patiently waiting projects. OK, now I’m bonding with my unborn girl over clothes and housework. I’m pregnant, and it’s late. I’m going to blame my questionable reasoning skills on those two facts and call it a night.
Rutabaga photo credit: iStockphoto
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