Finally the maternity clothes that I ordered from Old Navy arrived. I felt like a kid on Christmas bounding down the stairs toward a bounty of shiny presents under the tree. I’m not much of a clothes hound, but believe me, when you’re wearing clothes that have gone from tight to tighter, all you want is something roomy and stretchy to slip on over your swollen gut.
I ripped open the UPS package with gusto, admiring my treasures one by one. I knew the shirts were all probably going to be a little big at this point, which is fine, because I wanted some shirts with a little room to grow (turns out these have a lot of room to grow, but I’ve got a long way to go). The booty shorts I plan on wearing only around the house were perfect. Just a little too big, but they’ve got a drawstring, so I can adjust them to my liking. The granny panties fit well now, but also have enough stretch to them that I know they will fit months down the road. I opened the capris last, hoping that the XXL size I ordered would be large enough. As I unfolded them, I realized that they sure were big enough, but they also had drawstrings to adjust them. No wait, those are just a couple of ties on the front that look like drawstrings. I pulled them on, and immediately circus music began to play in my mind. I peered back into the package from whence they came, expecting to find a pair of matching clown shoes, a rainbow wig and a clown nose. They’ve not only got “room to grow”, they’re hugemongous. I could probably be pregnant with quads and they’d be too big. The pants are meant to either be worn under the belly, or in the middle of the belly once you’ve gotten large enough to have your own gravitational pull, but I’m unsure if even at my largest that they will fit properly; not to mention, I’d probably bear more of a resemblance to Urkel than to a pregnant goddess if I hitched them up as high as they can go (come to think of it, suspenders would probably go nicely with them). Disappointed once again, I looked up Old Navy’s return policy. You can ship them back to Old Navy for a refund, but then they take $6 for a shipping fee off of what they owe you. Since I had a $20 coupon and these pants were originally $29.50, they opted to take the $20 off of this particular item, reducing them to $9.50. That would give me a grand total of a $3.50 refund, which I could probably buy a couple of sodas at work with. It hardly seems worth the hassle, so I’m just going to hold onto them for now and hope that sometime in the next few months, clown chic becomes the in thing for pregnant women (or I come to know a pregnant rhinoceros that needs some sensible but comfortable gray linen-blend maternity capris). I did order the same capris in a smaller size, along with some Bermuda denim shorts, so I’ll keep watching for the UPS truck next week, and I’ll keep a lookout for matching clown shoes and rainbow wigs to go with the larger pair.
After that fiasco, I opted to give the Fairview Heights Target another chance. I managed to find a pair of maternity jeans (largest size they had, but beggars can’t be choosers) that fit nicely. They’re good and stretchy with a little room for baby and baby booty to grow, and they have that nice stretchy panel in front that supports the belly as it goes from huge to huger. I’m still holding onto the one pair of pre-pregnancy jeans that still fit until I can’t wear them anymore, but the maternity jeans were a welcome addition to my maternity arsenal.
After the victory of finally finding a pair of maternity jeans that fit my apparently oddly-shaped lower body correctly, I stopped by Barnes and Noble to take a look at their pregnancy journals; as you may recall, I got a free one from my last doctor’s visit, but it was also full of Similac ads, so I wanted something that was a little more classy to start noting things in. I found one that I liked, and being the book addict I am, I also found a copy of The Girlfriend’s Guide to Pregnancy by Vicki Iovine to give a loving home to as well (which is now the 4th pregnancy or baby-related book that I’ve added to my collection, excluding the journal).
As soon as I got home with the journal, I started writing things in it and looking at it a little more closely than I got a chance to in the store (shopping with Greg is almost like shopping with a toddler; if I start looking at something for too long, he gets fussy). The first thing I found that amused me was a page devoted to budgeting, which of course includes what you were paying for before you done got yourself knocked up. Gorsh, I never had a budget before! This is fancy! The next page is dedicated to childcare, with a bunch of questions (and blanks for answers) like “Do I want to return to work after my baby’s born?” (not particularly, but I kind of have to), and “Does my partner want to keep working?”, which I guess is a nod to the increasing number of stay-at-home dads. Actually, I’d love it if I made enough money that Greg could stay at home, but that’s not the case. Then, there are no less than 8 pages you can fill with prenatal questions and their corresponding answers. I’m sure my OB would love me if I asked her enough questions to fill up 8 pages of this journal (because she doesn’t have any other patients or anything else to do besides answer stupid questions). Then it’s divided into the three trimesters with handy -- you guessed it -- dividers. If you know anything at all about pregnancy, you know that the beginning of pregnancy is counted from the first day of your last menstrual period, even though it’s nigh impossible to get pregnant when you are shedding your uterine lining. Noting that, I was annoyed to find pages for weeks one: when you’re most likely spending your time bloated, pissed off, and consuming every piece of chocolate you can get your swollen little hands on, and two: preparing to undertake the romantic task of trying to figure out the best days for you and your partner to do the humpty dance. I’m half-tempted to note these things on these pages, but then I’d forever have to keep it out of the hands of my future child (or children) or any squeamish relatives or friends. An example of what would go on these pages follows:
Week One: Oh Jesus, it’s that time of the month again. My uterus feels like it’s going to explode any moment now, and may the gods help you if you piss me off. Just hand me a Blizzard and no one gets hurt. Oh dammit, why must I break out into these disgusting pimples every month? Son of a bitch! I hate men. Why do only women have to go through this? I hope Greg doesn’t want any sex, because I might just destroy him for even asking. Maybe I should look into getting a hysterectomy.
Week Two (this also applies to week three, since that would have actually been the time I would have conceived): Finally, I’ve stopped bleeding like I’ve been stabbed in the crotch and I feel more like myself again. All right, who wants to party (this was around the time of my infamous Christmas Sweater Party, which turned out to be my last hurrah)!!! Well, maybe I don’t hate Greg so much after all. He can’t help that he’s only a man, and that women are given the noble task of childbearing (and that an unfortunate side effect of that is surfing the crimson tide monthly). I am woman, hear me roar. Hmm, I’m feeling a little frisky. Do you feel like wearing a condom? Nah, me neither. I’m getting tired of them, quite frankly. *checks ovulation calendar online after* Hmm, well, good thing we were planning on trying next year, because this is my fertile time dear. Welp, may as well just plan on “trying” from here on out. No more raincoats! Yay! Wait, where are you going?
So, while this was no “accident” or “surprise”, we had actually planned on shooting (no pun intended) for a holiday baby (to get that sweet tax break sooner after birth and plus I’d get some holidays off while on maternity leave), but we decided to go ahead and start trying a little earlier, just in case it took a while (it didn’t). The miracle of life!
Yet another pleasant side effect of pregnancy is gas. I’ve been suffering from Spontaneous Belching Syndrome for the duration, but as far as farting went, I had heretofore been spared the embarrassment of uncontrollable gas. No more. Along with feeling stronger movements down under, I was also starting to feel the rumblings of gas. Prior to this point, I could definitely tell the difference between Junior doing the Samba and oncoming flatulence, but not anymore. I’ve now become an unwilling contestant in the “is it the baby or is it gas” game. I’d think I felt something, and would then be disappointed when that something turned out to be a rancorous explosion of gas from the back door instead of Junior giving my uterus knucks. There have been plenty of movements that weren’t accompanied by the kind of gas that could peel paint from the walls, but I’ve now reserved my excitement at feeling something rippling in there for a minute or two after I figured out I wasn’t just needing to fart. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again: pregnancy is so beautiful! There really needs to be a Hallmark commercial for moments such as this: the first time you think you feel your baby move, only to clear the room with noxious gas. It brings a tear to my eye, if only because it smells funny in here.
One myth of pregnancy that is absolutely infuriating is the myth that you have a pregnancy glow and that your acne magically clears up the moment sperm and egg collide. Uh, wrong. I am still getting lovely pimples on a regular basis, and I’m not “glowing”. I just can’t wipe the oil off of my face fast enough to keep it from being as shiny as a newly waxed linoleum floor. I’ve got two pimples right now that rival the ones I got during my monthly, and boy, am I pissed about it. I may have to switch to some grease-fighting face wash, since apparently the stuff meant for combination skin is not working so well. New wardrobe, new skin care regimen. We’ll see what surprises the next week brings, but hopefully no clown pants arrive in the mail this time.
I ripped open the UPS package with gusto, admiring my treasures one by one. I knew the shirts were all probably going to be a little big at this point, which is fine, because I wanted some shirts with a little room to grow (turns out these have a lot of room to grow, but I’ve got a long way to go). The booty shorts I plan on wearing only around the house were perfect. Just a little too big, but they’ve got a drawstring, so I can adjust them to my liking. The granny panties fit well now, but also have enough stretch to them that I know they will fit months down the road. I opened the capris last, hoping that the XXL size I ordered would be large enough. As I unfolded them, I realized that they sure were big enough, but they also had drawstrings to adjust them. No wait, those are just a couple of ties on the front that look like drawstrings. I pulled them on, and immediately circus music began to play in my mind. I peered back into the package from whence they came, expecting to find a pair of matching clown shoes, a rainbow wig and a clown nose. They’ve not only got “room to grow”, they’re hugemongous. I could probably be pregnant with quads and they’d be too big. The pants are meant to either be worn under the belly, or in the middle of the belly once you’ve gotten large enough to have your own gravitational pull, but I’m unsure if even at my largest that they will fit properly; not to mention, I’d probably bear more of a resemblance to Urkel than to a pregnant goddess if I hitched them up as high as they can go (come to think of it, suspenders would probably go nicely with them). Disappointed once again, I looked up Old Navy’s return policy. You can ship them back to Old Navy for a refund, but then they take $6 for a shipping fee off of what they owe you. Since I had a $20 coupon and these pants were originally $29.50, they opted to take the $20 off of this particular item, reducing them to $9.50. That would give me a grand total of a $3.50 refund, which I could probably buy a couple of sodas at work with. It hardly seems worth the hassle, so I’m just going to hold onto them for now and hope that sometime in the next few months, clown chic becomes the in thing for pregnant women (or I come to know a pregnant rhinoceros that needs some sensible but comfortable gray linen-blend maternity capris). I did order the same capris in a smaller size, along with some Bermuda denim shorts, so I’ll keep watching for the UPS truck next week, and I’ll keep a lookout for matching clown shoes and rainbow wigs to go with the larger pair.
After that fiasco, I opted to give the Fairview Heights Target another chance. I managed to find a pair of maternity jeans (largest size they had, but beggars can’t be choosers) that fit nicely. They’re good and stretchy with a little room for baby and baby booty to grow, and they have that nice stretchy panel in front that supports the belly as it goes from huge to huger. I’m still holding onto the one pair of pre-pregnancy jeans that still fit until I can’t wear them anymore, but the maternity jeans were a welcome addition to my maternity arsenal.
After the victory of finally finding a pair of maternity jeans that fit my apparently oddly-shaped lower body correctly, I stopped by Barnes and Noble to take a look at their pregnancy journals; as you may recall, I got a free one from my last doctor’s visit, but it was also full of Similac ads, so I wanted something that was a little more classy to start noting things in. I found one that I liked, and being the book addict I am, I also found a copy of The Girlfriend’s Guide to Pregnancy by Vicki Iovine to give a loving home to as well (which is now the 4th pregnancy or baby-related book that I’ve added to my collection, excluding the journal).
As soon as I got home with the journal, I started writing things in it and looking at it a little more closely than I got a chance to in the store (shopping with Greg is almost like shopping with a toddler; if I start looking at something for too long, he gets fussy). The first thing I found that amused me was a page devoted to budgeting, which of course includes what you were paying for before you done got yourself knocked up. Gorsh, I never had a budget before! This is fancy! The next page is dedicated to childcare, with a bunch of questions (and blanks for answers) like “Do I want to return to work after my baby’s born?” (not particularly, but I kind of have to), and “Does my partner want to keep working?”, which I guess is a nod to the increasing number of stay-at-home dads. Actually, I’d love it if I made enough money that Greg could stay at home, but that’s not the case. Then, there are no less than 8 pages you can fill with prenatal questions and their corresponding answers. I’m sure my OB would love me if I asked her enough questions to fill up 8 pages of this journal (because she doesn’t have any other patients or anything else to do besides answer stupid questions). Then it’s divided into the three trimesters with handy -- you guessed it -- dividers. If you know anything at all about pregnancy, you know that the beginning of pregnancy is counted from the first day of your last menstrual period, even though it’s nigh impossible to get pregnant when you are shedding your uterine lining. Noting that, I was annoyed to find pages for weeks one: when you’re most likely spending your time bloated, pissed off, and consuming every piece of chocolate you can get your swollen little hands on, and two: preparing to undertake the romantic task of trying to figure out the best days for you and your partner to do the humpty dance. I’m half-tempted to note these things on these pages, but then I’d forever have to keep it out of the hands of my future child (or children) or any squeamish relatives or friends. An example of what would go on these pages follows:
Week One: Oh Jesus, it’s that time of the month again. My uterus feels like it’s going to explode any moment now, and may the gods help you if you piss me off. Just hand me a Blizzard and no one gets hurt. Oh dammit, why must I break out into these disgusting pimples every month? Son of a bitch! I hate men. Why do only women have to go through this? I hope Greg doesn’t want any sex, because I might just destroy him for even asking. Maybe I should look into getting a hysterectomy.
Week Two (this also applies to week three, since that would have actually been the time I would have conceived): Finally, I’ve stopped bleeding like I’ve been stabbed in the crotch and I feel more like myself again. All right, who wants to party (this was around the time of my infamous Christmas Sweater Party, which turned out to be my last hurrah)!!! Well, maybe I don’t hate Greg so much after all. He can’t help that he’s only a man, and that women are given the noble task of childbearing (and that an unfortunate side effect of that is surfing the crimson tide monthly). I am woman, hear me roar. Hmm, I’m feeling a little frisky. Do you feel like wearing a condom? Nah, me neither. I’m getting tired of them, quite frankly. *checks ovulation calendar online after* Hmm, well, good thing we were planning on trying next year, because this is my fertile time dear. Welp, may as well just plan on “trying” from here on out. No more raincoats! Yay! Wait, where are you going?
So, while this was no “accident” or “surprise”, we had actually planned on shooting (no pun intended) for a holiday baby (to get that sweet tax break sooner after birth and plus I’d get some holidays off while on maternity leave), but we decided to go ahead and start trying a little earlier, just in case it took a while (it didn’t). The miracle of life!
Yet another pleasant side effect of pregnancy is gas. I’ve been suffering from Spontaneous Belching Syndrome for the duration, but as far as farting went, I had heretofore been spared the embarrassment of uncontrollable gas. No more. Along with feeling stronger movements down under, I was also starting to feel the rumblings of gas. Prior to this point, I could definitely tell the difference between Junior doing the Samba and oncoming flatulence, but not anymore. I’ve now become an unwilling contestant in the “is it the baby or is it gas” game. I’d think I felt something, and would then be disappointed when that something turned out to be a rancorous explosion of gas from the back door instead of Junior giving my uterus knucks. There have been plenty of movements that weren’t accompanied by the kind of gas that could peel paint from the walls, but I’ve now reserved my excitement at feeling something rippling in there for a minute or two after I figured out I wasn’t just needing to fart. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again: pregnancy is so beautiful! There really needs to be a Hallmark commercial for moments such as this: the first time you think you feel your baby move, only to clear the room with noxious gas. It brings a tear to my eye, if only because it smells funny in here.
One myth of pregnancy that is absolutely infuriating is the myth that you have a pregnancy glow and that your acne magically clears up the moment sperm and egg collide. Uh, wrong. I am still getting lovely pimples on a regular basis, and I’m not “glowing”. I just can’t wipe the oil off of my face fast enough to keep it from being as shiny as a newly waxed linoleum floor. I’ve got two pimples right now that rival the ones I got during my monthly, and boy, am I pissed about it. I may have to switch to some grease-fighting face wash, since apparently the stuff meant for combination skin is not working so well. New wardrobe, new skin care regimen. We’ll see what surprises the next week brings, but hopefully no clown pants arrive in the mail this time.
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