Monthly Archives: February 2011
I’ve gotten into the part of pregnancy I will now refer to as the “wearing ill fitting clothing” period. I went shopping the other day and bought my first actual maternity clothes. Even my leggings had become too binding and were leaving my belly skin sore. This is quite a feat as I bought large size leggings when I realized I was getting too full of baby to wear my normal ones. Considering my belly is almost 40 inches around now, I guess it shouldn’t be so surprising but come on! Partly, this is because my skin has become annoyingly sensitive. I can’t even wash it everyday because it gets so dry and ouchy. So, because of baby monster, I take a lot of whore baths and just wash the bits and pieces and the feet and my pits, which are now, hairless.
So, after I bought my super huge maternity bra, I ran over to Target and looked in the maternity section. It didn’t take long. It’s two racks. Two. Out of 4000 racks in the womens’ section, only two of them have maternity clothes on them. I know I live in LA and we are a young people and also a highly selfish, non-breeding sort out here, but come on. We are also interested in wearing clothing that makes us look decent and you would figure because of the shifting demographic for Target that they could do better than two racks. There isn’t even a clearance section for maternity. Probably because there are only ever two racks worth of clothing and from necessity, all of the clothing gets purchased.
I decided I would get some jeans. You know. Jeans. Everyone wears them. I don’t normally, but I do own a pair or two and they had a place in my wardrobe before my belly started to look like I had really bad liver problems. I extended the usefulness of my jeans using something known as belly bands that look like a tube top. I will probably repurpose them as just that after the kid is pooped out provided my stomach doesn’t look like ground beef like many chicks I’ve seen. God, that shit is just horrible. I eat tons of pure fat and I’m hoping that will help prevent me getting that horrible, saggy sack of ruined skin on my stomach. We’ll see. One whole side of the jean rack was devoted to capri jeans. Who the fuck thought capri length jeans were a good idea for pregnant chicks? I know fashion models who look dumpy with fat calves while wearing capri length jeans. No one, ever looks good in them. Ever. They are just not attractive. They are especially not attractive when you have a belly that is bigger around than a small moon. It’s just not a good shape. Although, there really is nothing quite like capris to say to the world that you have stopped caring about looking good and that you are a mom, so maybe that is it. Maybe the pregnant chicks who wear them want the world to know they have just given up. That must be it.
I walk to the other side of the rack and see other, longer jeans. What I’m really looking for are a pair of black, straight leg jeans. Size four. What I find are boot cut, light blue, distressed. I don’t wear light colored jeans, with the exception of one pair of light grey, super tight, skinny jeans that are really more like leggings than anything. I can only wear them when I haven’t had any booze or sugar for days as they show even the tiniest bulge. Well, used to wear them. They don’t fit so well now. Sadly. I did find one pair of jeans that would do. Dark wash, normal length, boot cut. Fine. Size two, but that’s okay too. I tried them on and was actually amazed at how they fit. Awesome. Thank you Target and your $30 maternity jeans. Thank you very much.
Bolstered by this, I wore the jeans for two days. I was wrong about them fitting well. After the first day, the started to sag and give me diaper butt every time I sat down. In order to get rid of this little problem, I would have to pull them up every time I sat down. Then, while sitting , I noticed the front part of the elastic would fall and create a big fat ripple on the front of my ample belly. So, like a heavy girl who is still trying in vain to fit into the clothes she wore before she became heavy, I have to pull up the front of the pants to hide the big fatty looking spot. Then, when I stand, it’s too high and cuts right into my nether parts and that won’t do so I have to adjust that and pull the back up. Again, like a girl with a muffin top trying to keep it from hanging all out.
This is what my life has become and I assume until I get into the moo-moo phase of the pregnancy, when all I want to wear is huge caftans, it will be like this. Sigh. I really hate nothing more than wearing clothing that doesn’t fit properly so this is a huge problem. A whole season of ill fitting clothing. It’s a nightmare. Thank god my shoes still fit. I seem to have escaped the dreaded huge feet that sometimes accompany pregnancy. For now, that is.
Well, this has been fun and disgusting. I have grown my armpit hair for who knows how long. The last two weeks, I did see a whole lot of growth but no more than normal. Really, it grows at the same rate. I’m totally convinced. I have a half-naked photoshoot tomorrow and even though a photo or two in the set will be Earth Mother Goddess like, I don’t think armpit hair is necessary to get the whole thing down. Lighting and hair and makeup and styling will be sufficient.
I feel bad for not posting, but to tell you the truth, I was really getting bored with it and it was cold in the warehouse in the mornings. I didn’t want to strip down and take the damned photo. Even if it only was for a second or two. Sorry, perverts.
I realized, I needed to finish my shopping trip from the other day. After I finally finished looking through the racks of horrible little boy baby monster clothes, I made my way over to the bra and undies section. I had to cross the housewares and managed to not pick up the cute railroad lantern I saw and even fondled a bit. It just doesn’t make sense to buy things for my house when I will be moving all of the contents of it in about a week. It can wait, and I’m sure Oregon will have equally cute things in their off-price retail stores. I wade through the lacy underpants and find myself in the 34 section of the bras. I walk all the way down to the end and see that they only seem to have a few 34Ds there, so I assume the big girl bras must all be together. You know, like the 34Ds will be chilling with the 40DDD and the like. Maybe so as not to make the 34Bs feel strange about their normal sized breasts. So, I walk over to the other side of the section. Yeah, this has got to be it. No longer do I see any bras made with transparent lace or delicate straps. The suckers on this end are made to seriously support some serious boobage. I saw one that had 2 inch over the shoulder straps! Wow, that is some bra. It was, horribly, a 42FF. I couldn’t imagine having either parts of that size! Whenever I see that sort of thing, I find myself imagining the woman who would wear that bra. It’s a little frightening. There is no part of my body, even half way through a pregnancy, that measures 42 inches and I’m really, really happy for that. Although, I just measured and I’m not too far from that. My belly at its biggest is 39 inches around and is officially the biggest it has ever been.
At any rate, I walked my way down to the end of the aisle and couldn’t find anything smaller than a 38D. Clearly, I was wrong about keeping the 34Ds down here. So, back to the other end again and again no luck. There were still only a couple bras and to tell you quite frankly, I really have zero need for lacy balconette style bras right now and I certainly don’t think I’ll ever need one that says FUBU on it. Just as I’m anti-advertising for infant wear, I’m equally anti-advertising for myself and really, really agains advertising on my bits and pieces. Ross had failed me. But, I seriously needed a new bra so I headed over to Nordstrom and the welcoming arms of soft jazz and actual sales people.
Once I hit Nordstrom, I had a very brief stop in Salon Shoes and salivated a little tiny bit over some amazing boots that would be amazing, but they are just a little too unreasonable right now. Soon though. Soon. They will be mine and even better, I will get them on sale. I hoped on the escalator and headed over to bras. I looked around for no longer than a minute when a lovely woman approached me. I asked her if they had nursing bras. I was figuring, if I’m going to go to the bother of spending $50 on a bra, I might as well get one that will last me for a good long while and will be useful after the little pumpkin head is born. Shit, I hope the kid doesn’t have a pumpkin sized head. Ouch. Maybe one of those little table top decorator pumpkins but surely not one of those County Fair pumpkins. ::cringe:: Okay, enough with that horrible thought!
She ushers me into a dressing room and I tell her I really need to be fitted as I am (pointing to my belly) preggers and my boobs keep getting and bigger. I tell her the last time I was fitted was 6 months before I was pregnant and I was a 34C. She looked at me and told me that had clearly changed. So, I strip down to my bra. Embarrassingly, I was wearing a bralette that at one time fitted my body and no longer did and was also frayed from a couple weeks of wearing it over my newly enormous breast. She measured my rib cage and tells me I’m still a 34. Sweet. And then turned me around and took a good look. I was either a DD or a DDD. Yeah, that’s right. DDD. 34DDD. Not only had pregnancy given me a lovely glow and pleasant disposition, it had now given me DDD. Maybe. She left the room and came back with a nursing bra and two non-nursing but very sturdy looking but stretchy bras for me to try. I went with the regular bras. I didn’t even want to try on the nursing bra. It was cute and all, as cute as a bra that has a built in pocket for nursing pads can be, but it just didn’t feel right. I wanted a regular one. One last regular bra purchase. I’m going to be in nursing bras for the next 18 months to 2 years anyways, why jump the gun? Shit. I’m going to be a food source for nearly two years. That is so crazy. I swear, sometimes it just hits me and this is all so foreign and so strange. I know other first timers out there go through this too. Sometimes I just want to back out, but um, that’s not really possible and not even legal in most states at this point. I don’t really want to anyways, just sometimes it gets a little real and then I get a little freaked and then I breath and I feel better. There. Now. I feel better.
On with the story. She did bring in a DD as well so I try that on and the bra is just too big. It’s for sure an old lady bra and while I don’t normally wear anything flashy, I still don’t wear bras that cover my breast bone almost to my throat as there is nothing remotely sexy about that. Well, I guess a plastic surgeon might find that sexy because he knows that properly fitted bras, worn 24 hrs a day, will be holding breasts that stay in the upright position when the bra does come off for a few minutes. Other than that, they are not sexy or nice to look at. I don’t want to be Grandma F. She had huge boobs and they were always trussed up in these amazing contraptions. They were always beige. They were always cone shaped. They were always there to make my sister and I laugh when we would poke around in the grandparents dressers when we were visiting them in Florida. Yeah, my grandparents lived in Florida. They had orange trees and were drunk by 11 am every day and played golf. We were that kind of family.
She gives me the demi version of the huge bra in a DD and that was actually okay. My only concern was that it fit a little too well. I could see a little area that was a bit too snug and new I would be grown out of it within a fortnight. So, I told her this and she ran off to the store room and came back…empty handed. The less horrible of the two horrible bras. The two bras they carry that will both support me and will stretch with me as I continue to grow into possibly FF size do not come in the same size range. If I want the one that will fit me in a week and extend the time I can wear it, I will have to go with the nana bra. I breathed a deep sigh and resigned myself to it. After all, what I’m going for here is support so I don’t end up with utters at the end of this whole making and feeding a baby thing.
So, there I was. She left me in the room to get back into my ridiculous “bra.” I looked at myself in the mirror and shed a figurative little tear. A tear for my body. A tear for my style. Then I looked down at my big belly in the mirror and the little stinker gave me a little kick in my full bladder and made me pee a little. So much for feeling sorry for myself. I had to get a bathroom, now.
Yesterday, I set out early to get some things done. On my list was run to AT&T to pay my phone bill, go to Whole Foods to get my bath wash (It’s Alba Very Emollient and I will pay $12 for a huge bottle of it without having heart palpitations,) find a new bra and pick up some moving boxes. I did not complete all of these tasks but I did substitute some other tasks with the ones that didn’t get completed.
First stop was Whole Foods. I parked there, ran in and got my body wash and then chucked that in my car and walked across the parking lot of Ross, Dress For Less or as one of my friends (I really can’t remember who) calls it Ross, Cross-Dress For Less. Instead of heading straight to the bra and underpant farm section, I decided I would check out the baby stuff. I figured, even though I haven’t been around a baby in close proximity for 15 years, that one can never have enough body suits and onesies (are those the same things?) and have been picking up a few cute ones when I see them, in various sizes. Even though the little, little ones are the cutest, I know eventually the kid will grow and will also need to be properly clothed when that does happen, so I get a wide variety of stuff when it’s on sale. Immediately, I noticed a couple things about the boys section. 1. It’s much smaller than the girls section as apparently little girls are clothes horses even as infants. 2. There are three types of boys during early childhood, jocks, mommy’s/daddy’s boys and car/train/airplane enthusiasts. Seeing as I have no son of my very own at this point I don’t know if he will appreciate the sleek designs of modern airplanes or will he be a railfan and spend his young days dreaming of steam engines and iron horses. It seems like whatever I brand him with as a baby may have a snowball effect.
My mother has even asked me recently, as in this morning, what “theme” I plan to do the nursery with. I really, really don’t know. I would hate to pick puppies and have him become irrationally afraid of dogs or even cats. Maybe I’ll do pirates or haunted houses. What about my choices with that? After all, it is a room in my house and will also be a guest room for much of it’s first year as I plan to do some sort of attachment parenting. Please, keep in mind, this is just the plan. As I’ve said before, I haven’t been around a baby for any significant period of time in 15 years, so I’m willing to bet my memories of sleeping in bed with my dear niece and how easy it was to lug her around are maybe a little rosey and not at all realistic. When I told my mother I wanted to have a co-sleeper instead of a crib, she interjected and said that must mean I’m not planning on having sex, ever again. This horrified me in many ways and makes me wonder why my mommy thinks about sex so much and if I had a therapist, I would bring it up at my next session and maybe ask for a higher dosage. Anyhoo, themes seem a little odd to me. My mom has a seaside theme in her upstairs bathroom. We have always had a seaside theme in every bathroom I can remember. I actually kind of love it because it reminds me of being little and sitting on the pot while looking through a basket of old shells and it makes me think of home whenever I see it in another person’s house. Besides those points I’m not inclined to theme it up in my own home. My mother has been in many of my homes and I would like the think she has observed my intentional lack of theme in any rooms and that also makes me wonder if she knows something I don’t know about the brain of human women after childbirth. Do we suddenly abandon our own style tastes in favor of mass produced, puppy emblazoned schlock? I just felt a chill run up my spine and now I’m looking at my impeding son as less of a good thing for me and more of a good thing for the Wal-Marts and K-Marts of this country.
At any rate, there is a third thing I noticed about little boy clothing. It is impossible or nearly impossible to find anything without either a huge corporate logo or a declarative statement. I don’t offer free advertising to clothing companies and I’m bound and determined that my child will also not become a gaudy and yet adorable corporate billboard. Well, not unless they pay him SAG wages and I get to fill his Coogan Account with his future college tuition or trade school tuition or house downpayment or gender reassignment surgery fees or whatever the little tyke wants to do with the money when he becomes an adult and is no longer a little tyke. The declarative sentences are also totally irritating. I think it would be funny, if his dad was very obviously unattractive, to get a shirt for the kid that says “handsome like daddy,” or even if the kid was quite ugly to do it, but that might be offensive. I guess. As for the statements about how much they love mommy or daddy or grandma or grandpa, well, how the hell do I know if my kid is going to love these people? I just recently figured out how I feel about them, after all. As for him though, first thing, I haven’t met him and second thing, I won’t even know for a very long time, until the kid can honestly express his emotions, so for a boy that should be around 45 years, to know who he really loves. It seems wrong of me to saddle the kid with such expectations from others now. Wouldn’t you expect if someone is wearing a shirt saying how much they love their grandmother that they wouldn’t throw a fit if they have to go stay with them for a week? I would and I think it would just cause confusion or hurt feelings if it doesn’t turn out to be that way.
I did manage to find something on the bargain racks that wasn’t terribly offensive. I found a 3-pack of Calvin Klein onesies. They are heather grey and have written in small print, above the silly little pocket, the name brand, but it’s small and sort of tasteful. It reminds me of a shirt I had in the 80s and wished I had had more than one. The cotton seems to be heavy weight and that must be good, right? It actually was the superfluous pocket that did me in it just seemed so ridiculous that it was cute. What, exactly, is a 6 month old going to put in a two inch square pocket? Half a cookie? A mushy carrot? Or a shell from the basket in my bathroom? Maybe. Maybe I should have gotten the navy blue.
One of the more pleasant and extremely unexpected effects of my “condition” is having friends who love nothing more than to feed me and sit staring at my growing belly. The last part is a little creepy, but I will endure it, for the pleasure of my force feeding friends. It actually started before I even knew I was pregnant. Within a couple weeks of implantation, I found myself graciously accepting dinner and lunch invitations nearly daily. Now, my friends are no slouches when it comes to eating or having dinner parties. We may not regularly patron the fanciest or most exclusive places in town and their are almost never paparazzi outside either the restaurants we go to or the homes of my friends (almost never) but I think we eat at the absolute best places in town. Often they are the booziest places as well, but I think that is mainly coincidence. Mainly. So, I am accustomed to an invitation either to join a small drunken group at a home or restaurant once or twice a week. But, strangely, as soon as I began to fret about my period being tardy, the invitations started to double or even triple. It’s like everyone knew, sort of.
Granted, before we all actually knew, when it was just that “glow” thing that was speaking to the collective subconscious of my peer group, I was encouraged to get a little more drunk or to just finish the bottle of wine myself or have another high-test margarita. But, it was all with food, so my pyloric valve was clamped shut from the food, so the booze actually had a chance to digest and be processed by my stomach acids a bit before heading into my liver and brain. Interesting, isn’t’ it? It’s not that food soaks up the booze, it’s that food causes the valve at the end of your stomach, the one that is right before the beginning of the small intestine. It’s called the duodenum, and for that knowledge, I would like the thank my 9th grade, advanced science class teacher whose name I forget; I’m pretty sure I would not remember her name even if I didn’t have pregnant brain as that was some 18 years ago. Pretty sure. Our bodies are so rad.
I’ve grown to appreciate our bodies even more since I have become pregnant. It’s not the expected, silly, miracle of life crap that I’m talking about either. It’s that animals know I’m pregnant and clearly those who are close to me knew I was pregnant not from looking at me really. For very early on, there actually wasn’t much pregnancy glow to speak of. I wasn’t sick, I was just tired and normal looking. And yet, everyone instinctively began to treat me differently, to want to feed me more. Guy friends of mine started insisting on picking me up instead of just meeting me at the bar. The didn’t suddenly realize they wanted to try to hook it up with me or anything like that as these are fellas that I’ve known for years and let me tell you, I’ve looked the same for a long time, if they wanted to stick it in, they would have tried long before they learned I burp and fart (just a little and I do pretend to coquettishly be embarrassed) or swear a lot or whatever other turn-off I am prone to doing. Regardless of the reason though, everyone responded differently to me and it was strange and wonderful at the same time.
I should have figured it out earlier, hell my friends should have figured out it earlier too. I have recently heard a bit of scuttlebutt that there was a bit of tittering and behind hand whispering going one and for good reason! For at least two weeks, I was posting daily on Facebook about my longing for a good sandwich. I went in the exquisite and slightly retarded detail. I even included a photos of said perfect sandwich so everyone could look at it and tell where in town I could find one just like it. I did not find what I was looking for in LA. There are many great and unique sandwiches here but there are not perfect sandwiches. Not the ones I was looking for. I found some things that were close, so friggin’ close, but not exactly. It was disappointing and represented the first time in a decade that Los Angeles, the city that I chose to call my home, had disappointed me so thoroughly. It still smarts. It really does. I just don’t understand how in a city with everything else and people from every part of the country and globe my perfect sandwich cannot be found. Why???
No matter. It is what it is and I have accepted it. Sort of. I don’t have much choice and to be honest, in the last few months, I have had so much incredible food that you would think I wouldn’t still be burning a candle for the perfect sandwich. You would think that. I wish I could stop obsessing over it. I don’t even really want it anymore and yet any time I think of it, it is all I want. Sigh.