Bella band: the dark side

Based on a comment last week, the testimony of several friends who swore that it saved their wardrobes, and the perky pushiness of a saleswoman at the baby store where I innocently stopped to purchase a baby shower gift–she clearly could see the sharp indentation where my jeans were slicing me in half and knew that I was vulnerable–I bought a Bella Band this weekend.

So easy to wear!  Even a stupid pregnant woman can do it.

Then why does mine keep rolling up?  Everytime I move, sit, bend over, or breathe, it rolls up to my waist, completely defeating the purpose of something that is intended to hide the fact that I can no longer button my pants.

Am I just stupid?  Is this because I (for the moment) have big hips and small waist?  Seriously people.  I expect more from my $20 accessories.

On the way downhill

It’s 10:15 in the morning and I just ate my lunch.  I couldn’t help it.  It was either that or gnaw off my own arm to prevent starvation.

I’m at 13 weeks today.  Welcome to the second trimester.

Is this some kind of joke?

11:02 AM I get nauseous at my desk.  I begin to suspect that this may be the first time that I actually puke during my pregnancy.

11:04 Oh, dear.  This is serious.  I go hide in the bathroom in anticipation of puke-age.

11:05 I feel better.

11:06 I go back to my desk.

11:07 Feeling pukey again.

11:08 Back in the bathroom.

11:10 All better.  Back to work.

11:11 Nauseous again.  For Christ’s sake.

11:13 Feel better in bathroom.

11:14 Nauseous at desk again.  Start wishing I worked on a damn laptop so I could just work in the bathroom, which is clearly the only place where I don’t feel like puking.

Do you think he’ll believe the stork thing?

I need to tell my boss that I’m pregnant.  I mean, I need do it at some point, right?  Sooner or later people in the office are going to starting arching eyebrows at me and poking each other as I walk by and before all that happens, I probably owe it to my boss to tell him.

Here’s the problem: my boss is a ridiculously uptight Episcopalian with a little bit of an obsession about propriety.  Despite all that, he is a very nice man and I like him considerably.  But telling him that I had sex is not on my list of good times.

Can I just tell him that I’ll be taking a three month sabbatical in November and don’t worry, I know I’m getting really fat, it’s a glandular problem?  Is that an option?

Overshooting, or: This is not the problem I thought I would have

I went shopping this weekend to find some work clothes to pull me through at least the next three months.  I tend to pack on pounds on my butt, not my belly, so all of my clothes are cut to be forgiving in that region.  Unfortunately, it turns out that you don’t grow a kid in your butt and thus they are all wrong for this purpose.

I was down to two pairs of pants and one skirt that didn’t feel like they were cutting me in half at my mid-section and possibly injuring the zygote.  It would be just my luck to give birth to a kid with a permanent pants line on its forehead.

So, off I went to the stores, muttering all the way for I believe shopping was created for women with better self-esteem, patience, and endurance than I.  Nevertheless, I found one pair of pants that, when selected in the size larger than I normally wear, had a comforting amount of space around the waist and the added benefit of a little stretch.  Perfect.  Sign me up and get me the hell out of here.

This decision appears to have been a mistake, as it is 4PM and I have been hauling my pants up for the last seven hours.  Too big waist + spandex in the fabric = pants falling down once they stretch out.  At work.  While I am sitting down, even.

If I eat the rest of the donuts in the staff kitchen, do you think they’ll fit better?

The sad part is that I can’t really argue with his logic

Him: Wow.  I have to say that the new boobs are pretty amazing.

Me: So you’ve been lying to me all these years when you told me that you like small breasts?

Him: No, not at all.  A man just appreciates some variety now and then.

Things I never needed to know existed

Maternity thongs.

What’s wrong with you women?

True dat

Doctor: Now, it’s possible that we won’t be able to hear the heartbeat.  10 1/2 weeks is still pretty early.

Me: I understand.

Doctor: *squishing cold metal thing around on my stomach* Nothing yet.  But, really. Don’t worry if we don’t hear anything.

Me: Okay.  What’s that?

Doctor: That’s you. This is totally normal.  The placenta is forming up front and it’s probably blocking the heartbeat.

Me: Okay.

Doctor: *keeps squishing* Nope.  Still nothing.  Sorry.  Next time for sure.

Me: Okay.

 Later, outside the office.

Me: Ohmigod, I killed the baby.

Him: That placenta formation sounded cool.

Wondering

This morning, I officially discovered that I no longer fit into one of my pairs of pants.  These pants were, to be fair, one of my skinnier pairs and were formerly a critical part of my clothing warning system.  When I found this pair of pants to be a little snug around the waist, it was time to put down the ice cream bowl for a few weeks.

This time they were not just snug.  They barely fastened.  They wrinkled across the crotch.  The lie-flat pockets did not, in any sense, lie flat.  I can no longer wear these pants.

It occurs to me that I may never wear these pants again.  Who knows what my body will look like post-baby?  There are entire segments of my wardrobe that may never again be on my body.  I am happy to pass them on to others, but I will miss them. 

Like most women, my clothes are a reflection of my self-image.  They are my idea of who I am, or would like to be, as a person.  I don’t shop much, so many of these pieces were carefully considered, specifically chosen, and worn through some of my greatest memories.  Now I will have new clothes.  Mom clothes.

And many of them will have elastic waists.

God, I’m going to miss those pants.

I may be a cliche, but you’re funny-looking

Three people in the last week have asked if I’m pregnant.

Not because I look pregnant (which I don’t, not to anyone less obsessed with my gut than I am).

Not because I keep talking about babies (which I don’t.  Ever).

But because, “You already have a house and a dog, so kids are next, right?”

Sweet mercy, is it that bad?

I don’t want to live my life as a checklist.  Those people who want to be engaged by 28, married by 29, have a boy at 31, and have a girl at 33 scare the bejesus out of me and I resent the implication that I am one.

More, I resent the implication that I am boring.

So I have a husband, a house, and a dog.  Does that mean I need to be pregnant, too?

Oh. Crap.

Guess that means we need to sell the house, buy an RV, and drive around to dog shows around the country because I’ll be damned if I’ll be that predictable.