I don’t consider myself anyone who’s ever been terribly hip, nor stylish, nor in the know. Even growing up in the terminally awesome 80′s with a fine sense of post-punk and an even finer sense of 90′s indie guitar rock, I never did figure out how to dress.
I have to say, being pregnant has made this problem all the worse.
I looked at myself today, 13 weeks pregnant with twins. I’m digging the new shape of my body, as much as I was pretty unhappy with my former one. Since starting IVF treatments in January, I have gained a ton of weight all over – my face, arms, belly, thighs. Even my fingers have felt swollen. I chalk it up to drugs, hormones and the god awful depression that comes from failed IVF attempts, (which made me eat all the more, and all the less healthy stuff).
So my form is a bit, well, doughy. I am sad to admit that it droops in a lot of bad places, like my upper arms and thighs. My butt has those awful dimples on it and seems to get wider every time I check. (I’m checking a lot less frequently now, so I hope that helps). But what draws my attention in the mirror now is not the sagging heaps of flesh from just below my armpits. Instead, I’m hopelessly drawn to the tight expanse of bellyness extruding over my belt. Yes, there’s a bit of a cushy pillow on top, but to me the overall shape of my naked body clearly says, “PREGNANT!” And that’s really rad.
However, without a moderate investment in a half decent maternity wardrobe, that awesomeness of looking pregnant is reserved for nakie time. Otherwise, consider my look big and baggy like so many trash bags over a pile of wadded newspapers. I’m wearing my husband’s pants, which sounds much more darling than it looks.
I really swore I would try to be cool, even as a Mom, even as I get into middle age. I don’t want to dress “comfortably” in cheap elastic waistbanded pants and billowing tops. I want to be pregnant in punk rock t-shirts, dirty jeans and high tops.
But the other day, I looked in the mirror and saw myself in a pair of Orange Crocks and elastic waist banded capris tucked under a billowing floral print SNAP (for god’s sake) top. The ultimate picture of middle aged laziness in fat fashion.
Something had to change. So I finally did it. I finally went out and bought maternity clothes.
Now these aren’t the jeans I actually bought, but I did buy two similar pairs, one with the belly like the picture, and another with that full belly stocking thing. Having never been pregnant before, and suffering the last several weeks as my mid-section revolted against the button of every pair of pants I own, I was simply AMAZED by how incredibly wonderful maternity pants are. I told my husband, “This is life changing.” And I sincerely meant it. The experience of sitting has completely altered for me. No more persistent discomfort in my midsection. No more sitting at my desk at work with my pants unbuttoned and unzipped, hoping nobody walks in unannounced. No more leaning back precariously in my office chair, trying to get my damned pants fastened clandestinely before I stand up. Life changing.
Why did I wait so long? Well, I am really quite fragile still about being pregnant in the first place. I am terrified that if I make it too real (by buying maternity pants, say) that it will cease to be real. I don’t know if I’m overly superstitious given the four years of struggle it has taken to get pregnant. Maybe I’m just like this.
In any case, in my new maternity jeans and retro striped t-shirts I may not yet look the paragon of hip impending over-35 “I grew up in the 80s so fuck off” motherhood I want to be, but now that I can breathe while sitting, I have to admit – I feel that way on the inside.
And it’s what’s inside that counts, isn’t it?
