When I was pregnant with Lucas last year (Oh God, I was pregnant last year, too?), Ron and I got into a discussion about whether or not and when and if it is socially appropriate for a pregnant woman to bear her belly in public. I don't remember now exactly how the subject came up. Likely, while perusing a pregnancy magazine, I made the mistake of pointing out a midriff-baring shirt or dress that I thought looked cute on one of the models. Regardless, I do remember his reaction: a succinct, if melodramatic, "Ew!" accompanied by a face suggesting I had just shown him sheep entrails.
Now, contrary to what you may be thinking, I'm not going to turn all crunchy here and launch into a celebratory oration on the beauty of the engorged female form. I don't completely buy that crock o' schlock either. I understand that sometimes when we get pregnant, we just get fat. Still, Ron's reaction pissed me off because, in my hormonal state, I took it as a direct reflection of his attitude toward my own burgeoning belly. Of course he claimed over and over that this wasn't true (and I put down the meat cleaver). Still, I opted to keep my gut under wraps for the duration of the pregnancy.
All of this brings me to last Sunday, when Lucas and I were out for our morning walk. Since I finally bucked the bulk of my morning sickness, we've been pretty good about taking the stroller through its regular paces, even during this most recent heat wave. As soon as Lukey had finished breakfast, I filled a sippy cup with ice water, slathered the boy with SPF, and strapped him in. After turning right at the first corner, the sun was on our backs and there was a nice breeze coming down the hill, out of the West. I huffed and I puffed, pushing the 18 pound stroller plus the 25 pound kid (his collection of rocks, the sippy, the iPod, the garage door opener, the cell phone) up the hill and out of the subdivision. When I got to 156th St, I stopped to catch my breath and (after I downed nearly half of it myself) offered Lucas a pull from his sippy.
We ducked in and out of the flickering shade patches that dot the morning sidewalk between Oakbrook Meadows and the entrance to the Pappio Trail. Up on the ridge, there, the wind picked up and kept us cool. Lucas leaned his entire upper body over the left edge of the stroller to watch the ground roll past, his right fist simultaneously shoving a big piece of river rock into his mouth. This provided an extra upper body workout for me, as the giant leaning baby produced a significant amount of drag.
Anyway, by the time we'd progressed about 20 yards down the trail proper, I was sweating like a...well...like a pregnant lady pushing a giant stroller in 90-some degree heat, no shade in sight. Meanwhile, happy bicycling couples whizzed past on their way to Lake Zorinsky. I stopped to take a drink and realized something: most of those biking people weren't wearing shirts. The women wore sports bras, sure, but no shirts. Hmm. I walked another 10 yards or so. I stopped. I looked up the now empty trail behind me. I looked ahead. Empty that way, too, for the moment. Hmm. I handed the baby his sippy cup, and then I did it. In one quick move I pulled off my shirt and knotted it around the stroller handle. So much better! But as we resumed our walk, the internal dialogue began.
This isn't obscene or something, is it? It feels weird, vulnerable to be exposed this way. This from the girl who has never really worn anything on top but a sports bra for workouts, suddenly modest in my compromised body, like I'm showing something I shouldn't. I'm looking a little thick to be doing this. And my boobs look ridiculous. What if now I'm one of those people who runs around in things they shouldn't? Ron would later do his best to reassure me by saying, "I'm sure anyone who noticed just thought you had some baby gut left from the kid in the stroller." Oh, crap! What if people think I still have some baby gut left from the kid in the stroller? Not that there's anything wrong with that. And on it went for awhile. But by the time we got back home I was over my discomfort for the most part, for that day anyway.
Now, over a week later, I don't even bother with the shirt when Lucas and I go out in the mornings, even though my "problem area" grows thicker by the day. It's too hot to care, and I'm apparently too stupid not to walk in this weather. Should a woman my age and in my condition be running around in marathon shorts and a sports bra? Probably not, but who really sees me back there on the trail anyway? Oh well, yeah, him. Lucas the rock-eater will probably need years of counseling to get past it.
25 July 2006
14 July 2006
M.I.L.F.
No, not that kind. Not anymore. Not for awhile, at least. I'm feeling more like "Mom In a Lackadaisical Funk" these days. I think I have officially entered the awkward phase, the adolescence, if you will, of my pregnancy. With each day that passes, my clothes get smaller and smaller. If you saw me around the house, you'd think I was single-handedly campaigning to bring back the belly shirt. This, of course, was a dangerous trend to begin with, as most women seemed to think the sizeable gap left between the bottom of their short-short shirt and the top of their low-rise pants was just a convenient space to air their fat roll. What's worse, with pregnancy you don't just give up the six-pack for the cooler, but you also have these new boobs to contend with.
And they pop up overnight, too. One day, you're cruising along just fine, "La la la, I'm pregnant, hoorah, etc.," and the next day you wake up and it's like, "What the hell?" Maybe this doesn't happen to everyone. A lot of the newly pregnant women I fit at Victoria's Secret get all excited at this stage, "Gee, I didn't have anything to begin with!" they squeal delightedly, finally a B-cup. I, on the other hand, did have something to begin with, so now I just have more and no good place to keep it. At not quite 12 weeks I'm already busting, so to speak, out of my 34DDs. This doesn't bode well for trimesters two and three. Unless I plan on entering wet t-shirt contests. Baby needs a college fund, right?
So anyway, the shirts get shorter, the pants get tighter (the hour grows longer, the jokes grow poorer, and the wind taunts like laughter through the trees, etc.). And it's too soon to pull out the maternity pants just yet. With my last pregnancy I didn't enjoy this same level of nausea, so I ate the shit out of the first trimester (thank you, Runza) and gained 15 pounds in the process. This time around, I've only gained 3 or 4, so my ass fails to fill out even the smallest prego trousers. [Aside: I was relieved to read somewhere when I was pregnant with Lucas that it's the body's natural tendency to pack on the booty during pregnancy as a way of counterbalancing one's growing belly. I don't know if this little nugget is actually true, but it made me feel better when I read things like, "Many women don't notice any weight gain during the first trimester." I'm sorry, what?! Let me waddle right over there and kick your ass.] At any rate, maternity pants still sag in the butt, and regular pants give me the done-lops. I know this will change in another month or two, but for the moment I am officially just past the point of being able to suck it in. This doesn't mean I'm above trying, though. Must...exhale...soon...(and--whoooszh--if you look fast enough you may see me fly around the room backward.)
But back to the original MILF factor. I'm pretty sure it's gone, baby. Buh-bye. On indefinite hiatus with no forwarding address. And its replacement, that every-elusive "Pregnant Glow" has yet to make an appearance. In the meantime I'll have to make due with what I've got: big boobs, limp hair, unpredictable skin, the bloat, the bad clothes. It's like I'm one neon scrunchie away from 1986. Bueller?
And they pop up overnight, too. One day, you're cruising along just fine, "La la la, I'm pregnant, hoorah, etc.," and the next day you wake up and it's like, "What the hell?" Maybe this doesn't happen to everyone. A lot of the newly pregnant women I fit at Victoria's Secret get all excited at this stage, "Gee, I didn't have anything to begin with!" they squeal delightedly, finally a B-cup. I, on the other hand, did have something to begin with, so now I just have more and no good place to keep it. At not quite 12 weeks I'm already busting, so to speak, out of my 34DDs. This doesn't bode well for trimesters two and three. Unless I plan on entering wet t-shirt contests. Baby needs a college fund, right?
So anyway, the shirts get shorter, the pants get tighter (the hour grows longer, the jokes grow poorer, and the wind taunts like laughter through the trees, etc.). And it's too soon to pull out the maternity pants just yet. With my last pregnancy I didn't enjoy this same level of nausea, so I ate the shit out of the first trimester (thank you, Runza) and gained 15 pounds in the process. This time around, I've only gained 3 or 4, so my ass fails to fill out even the smallest prego trousers. [Aside: I was relieved to read somewhere when I was pregnant with Lucas that it's the body's natural tendency to pack on the booty during pregnancy as a way of counterbalancing one's growing belly. I don't know if this little nugget is actually true, but it made me feel better when I read things like, "Many women don't notice any weight gain during the first trimester." I'm sorry, what?! Let me waddle right over there and kick your ass.] At any rate, maternity pants still sag in the butt, and regular pants give me the done-lops. I know this will change in another month or two, but for the moment I am officially just past the point of being able to suck it in. This doesn't mean I'm above trying, though. Must...exhale...soon...(and--whoooszh--if you look fast enough you may see me fly around the room backward.)
But back to the original MILF factor. I'm pretty sure it's gone, baby. Buh-bye. On indefinite hiatus with no forwarding address. And its replacement, that every-elusive "Pregnant Glow" has yet to make an appearance. In the meantime I'll have to make due with what I've got: big boobs, limp hair, unpredictable skin, the bloat, the bad clothes. It's like I'm one neon scrunchie away from 1986. Bueller?
04 July 2006
The Bath
The baby was clean, dinner was over. Still some time before fireworks. What I wanted more than anything was to just take a few minutes for myself, a little time to collect my thoughts, relax. What I wanted more than anything was a bath. Part of this stems from the fact that lately, showers are just too exhausting. Have I become so lazy that the act of standing up while bathing is just too much to deal with? Probably. That would be in keeping with the way things have been going in general. Still, there's just something about the promise of a nice long soak. I don't know, maybe it's a girl thing.
So first I have to wade through the Frog Pod carnage. Although we have two other bathrooms in our house, there is only one bathtub to which Lucas and I currently share priviledges. Anyway, our adorable green plastic storage frog came unstuck from the wall earlier in the week, so the baby's bath toys (along with pieces of said frog) are scattered in a little trail from the door to the tub. Once I clear the way, I start the water, add some bubbles. A little vanila, some lavender. I turn on the radio. Excellent--CD 105 is running a Stones fantasy concert. I strip--physically I am still in the honeymoon phase of my pregnancy. My belly is only slightly rounder, my hips, other curves. Into the water I sink.
The water feels wonderful until I start to wonder if it feels too good. Is it too hot? I remember reading last pregnancy that one shouldn't overheat during the first trimester. Neural tube defects or something equally menacing. Oh excellent--I'm baking the baby. So I add some cold water. The Stones break into the first riffs of "Honkey Tonk Woman."
When Ron & I first started dating we were playing Trivial Pursuit when I got a flawed music question based on the lyrics to this song. Now don't get me wrong, there are many areas of Trivial Pursuit at which I suck, but do not--I repeat, do not--mess with me when it comes to music trivia, especially something as basic as Stones lyrics. Please. The question was: "What did the Rolling Stones' Honkey Tonk Woman do after she blew her nose?" The given answer was, "She blew her mind," which of course I missed, because IT ISN'T THE RIGHT ANSWER. In fact, the question isn't even the right question. The actual lyric is, "She blew my nose and then she blew my mind." ie: "We did a little coke & then she gave me a bj." PLEASE. The way they have it doesn't make any sense. I mean, I don't think that's even physically possible.
But I digress. So, I'm in the bath. Relaxing. And really, between Mick Jagger and the bathroom fan, I can barely hear the one-year-old stomping up and down the hallway, pausing only occasionally to bang on the door. So, Honkey Tonk Woman and neural tube defects, and then the Greek salad. The hot bath thing reminds me of other pregnancy rules I'm breaking. I mean, I haven't given up caffeine entirely. The morning coffee is gone, but it has been replaced by the somewhat ambrosial, somewhat caffeinated Starbuck's Frappuccino. Gimme a break, I get the stupid things half price at Barnes & Noble. As I had to remind Ron, "It's not crack, Honey."
But the Greek salad. Today for lunch, I committed yet another no-no...I ate a Greek salad. In case you're having trouble following my hormonal logic, Greek salads contain feta cheese, which falls into one of the many categories of Foods You Should Avoid During Pregnancy. More precisely, "unpasteurized soft and blue-veined cheeses." Boo! This is a huge deal in my little world because cheese, in general, is my very favorite part of the food pyramid. I love the Dairy Council (and yes, I really do have a favorite part of the food pyramid). I love cheese, and this crap about no gorgonzola, brie, feta, or bleu...well what the hell, really? And now what if I've caught some kind of cheese disease from my salad?
So the bath. It was relaxing. I mean, once I stopped thinking about that stupid Trivial Pursuit card. And the hot water. And the effects of caffeine. And potential food-borne illnesses. After that, well...I got the hell out.
So first I have to wade through the Frog Pod carnage. Although we have two other bathrooms in our house, there is only one bathtub to which Lucas and I currently share priviledges. Anyway, our adorable green plastic storage frog came unstuck from the wall earlier in the week, so the baby's bath toys (along with pieces of said frog) are scattered in a little trail from the door to the tub. Once I clear the way, I start the water, add some bubbles. A little vanila, some lavender. I turn on the radio. Excellent--CD 105 is running a Stones fantasy concert. I strip--physically I am still in the honeymoon phase of my pregnancy. My belly is only slightly rounder, my hips, other curves. Into the water I sink.
The water feels wonderful until I start to wonder if it feels too good. Is it too hot? I remember reading last pregnancy that one shouldn't overheat during the first trimester. Neural tube defects or something equally menacing. Oh excellent--I'm baking the baby. So I add some cold water. The Stones break into the first riffs of "Honkey Tonk Woman."
When Ron & I first started dating we were playing Trivial Pursuit when I got a flawed music question based on the lyrics to this song. Now don't get me wrong, there are many areas of Trivial Pursuit at which I suck, but do not--I repeat, do not--mess with me when it comes to music trivia, especially something as basic as Stones lyrics. Please. The question was: "What did the Rolling Stones' Honkey Tonk Woman do after she blew her nose?" The given answer was, "She blew her mind," which of course I missed, because IT ISN'T THE RIGHT ANSWER. In fact, the question isn't even the right question. The actual lyric is, "She blew my nose and then she blew my mind." ie: "We did a little coke & then she gave me a bj." PLEASE. The way they have it doesn't make any sense. I mean, I don't think that's even physically possible.
But I digress. So, I'm in the bath. Relaxing. And really, between Mick Jagger and the bathroom fan, I can barely hear the one-year-old stomping up and down the hallway, pausing only occasionally to bang on the door. So, Honkey Tonk Woman and neural tube defects, and then the Greek salad. The hot bath thing reminds me of other pregnancy rules I'm breaking. I mean, I haven't given up caffeine entirely. The morning coffee is gone, but it has been replaced by the somewhat ambrosial, somewhat caffeinated Starbuck's Frappuccino. Gimme a break, I get the stupid things half price at Barnes & Noble. As I had to remind Ron, "It's not crack, Honey."
But the Greek salad. Today for lunch, I committed yet another no-no...I ate a Greek salad. In case you're having trouble following my hormonal logic, Greek salads contain feta cheese, which falls into one of the many categories of Foods You Should Avoid During Pregnancy. More precisely, "unpasteurized soft and blue-veined cheeses." Boo! This is a huge deal in my little world because cheese, in general, is my very favorite part of the food pyramid. I love the Dairy Council (and yes, I really do have a favorite part of the food pyramid). I love cheese, and this crap about no gorgonzola, brie, feta, or bleu...well what the hell, really? And now what if I've caught some kind of cheese disease from my salad?
So the bath. It was relaxing. I mean, once I stopped thinking about that stupid Trivial Pursuit card. And the hot water. And the effects of caffeine. And potential food-borne illnesses. After that, well...I got the hell out.
Being Molly Ringwald
It's scary how much of the mid-80s I spent pining away after John Hughes's little ingenue. God, I like totally wanted to be Molly Ringwald. Okay maybe not her, exactly, but the characters she played. Like Samantha Baker in Sixteen Candles, I mean the way Jake Ryan stared at her in class while she filled out that sex survey. I wanted boys to gaze myopically at me that way. And how he just magically--wow--showed up there at the church, waiting for Sam after her sister's wedding, then that scene with the flaming birthday cake. I wanted a cute boy to come wait in the street for me and kiss me over an open flame. (This of course was a precursor to the boom-box-over-the-head scene from Say Anything. Eventually I wanted that, too.)
What I wanted most, though, in that way we "want" our lives to magically echo the movies, was to be Andie in Pretty In Pink. Except maybe not so poor. And with better parents. I just thought she was sooo coool, you know? I was ready to drop everything (read: the 8th grade) to get a job at Homer's and spend all my time putting together killer, faux-baroque outfits at the Goodwill. Actually, I tried that thrift-store-chic thing for awhile, but it never really took. There's something about second-hand clothes from an unknown source that I can't quite "do." It's not that I'm a snob. Most of the baby's summer wardrobe has come from my friend's son, Bode. That's fine. And I've pilfered most of my friend Amy's maternity wardrobe. For whatever reason, other seconds just oog me out, no matter how good a deal.
Anyway, truth of the matter is, I was always more Duckie than Andie, more awkward than ingenue. When it came to unrequited love I was the usually the flame keeper, not the object. I sang into the hair brush while you fetched the juice boxes. I rode my bike past your house. I was, ultimately, your last chance for a prom date. Okay, so maybe it wasn't really that bad. I did have a date to the senior prom--my on-again, off-again first "real" boyfriend, Bill, who now (incidentally) is serving time on a federal weapons charge after doing time for meth production and fathering three children by three different women. Andie lived on the wrong side of the tracks--I just dated there. By the way, on August 29th they're releasing a new "Pretty In Pink" DVD that will (allegedly) contain not only the movie as it appeared in theaters, but also, among the extras, the original ending in which Andie chooses Duckie over Blaine. I don't know how I feel about that. Although Andrew McCarthy did look like shit in that white tux...
Hey wait--I just realized--I can't go without mentioning Claire, princess darling of "The Breakfast Club." Sure she was annoyingly high-maintenance, as rich as Andie had been poor (and yes, at this point I realize I'm talking about characters as if they were real people), but there was something about this swing of the pendulum. Aha! Molly Ringwald was an Everyman. She was poor! She was rich! She was rejected! She was the shit! I envied her sense of style, her machismo. I envied her stylish little pout and that subtle way she landed the bad boy. It was the lipstick trick, right? Had to be.
What I wanted most, though, in that way we "want" our lives to magically echo the movies, was to be Andie in Pretty In Pink. Except maybe not so poor. And with better parents. I just thought she was sooo coool, you know? I was ready to drop everything (read: the 8th grade) to get a job at Homer's and spend all my time putting together killer, faux-baroque outfits at the Goodwill. Actually, I tried that thrift-store-chic thing for awhile, but it never really took. There's something about second-hand clothes from an unknown source that I can't quite "do." It's not that I'm a snob. Most of the baby's summer wardrobe has come from my friend's son, Bode. That's fine. And I've pilfered most of my friend Amy's maternity wardrobe. For whatever reason, other seconds just oog me out, no matter how good a deal.
Anyway, truth of the matter is, I was always more Duckie than Andie, more awkward than ingenue. When it came to unrequited love I was the usually the flame keeper, not the object. I sang into the hair brush while you fetched the juice boxes. I rode my bike past your house. I was, ultimately, your last chance for a prom date. Okay, so maybe it wasn't really that bad. I did have a date to the senior prom--my on-again, off-again first "real" boyfriend, Bill, who now (incidentally) is serving time on a federal weapons charge after doing time for meth production and fathering three children by three different women. Andie lived on the wrong side of the tracks--I just dated there. By the way, on August 29th they're releasing a new "Pretty In Pink" DVD that will (allegedly) contain not only the movie as it appeared in theaters, but also, among the extras, the original ending in which Andie chooses Duckie over Blaine. I don't know how I feel about that. Although Andrew McCarthy did look like shit in that white tux...
Hey wait--I just realized--I can't go without mentioning Claire, princess darling of "The Breakfast Club." Sure she was annoyingly high-maintenance, as rich as Andie had been poor (and yes, at this point I realize I'm talking about characters as if they were real people), but there was something about this swing of the pendulum. Aha! Molly Ringwald was an Everyman. She was poor! She was rich! She was rejected! She was the shit! I envied her sense of style, her machismo. I envied her stylish little pout and that subtle way she landed the bad boy. It was the lipstick trick, right? Had to be.
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