Sep
17
September 17, 2007
I can’t remember if maternity wear waistbands get easier to deal with later in pregnancy or even worse. I mean, is there ever a gestational stage when you aren’t hitching at your pants in order to stop them from 1) choke-holding your belly like a starving anaconda or 2) sliding incrementally down to the very bottom of your ass crack?
I’m also on a Great Bra Quest, since my entire chest region seems to have drastically altered its topography. There’s the new cup size to contend with, but there’s also this problem where my belly seems to start curving outward at the top of my ribcage, so most styles featuring underwire (to hold the aforementioned cups O’ hooter) burrow directly into my flesh, regardless of the band size. I bought a wire-free bra, but during a trial run of wearing it the results were . . . unfortunate. Let’s just say my cups runneth over, and gravity had its way with me.
My favorite time of day is in the early evening, when I rip off the mostly-presentable clothes I wore during the day and I vigorously scratch my unencumbered, gasping-for-breath thorax before sliding into my slovenly home uniform: baggy Old Navy yoga pants (rolled under my belly), a maternity t-shirt, and something called a “sleeping bra” that provides virtually no support but at least keeps my anatomy from bouncing around and randomly smacking into things, like my face.
Pregnancy is so sexy. Especially on the extra-gassy days.
Oddly, Riley seems to be experiencing some clothing challenges too. He’s shot up in height and narrowed out (whither toddler potbelly? Gone, baby, gone) and none of his damn pants will stay up. They all fit in length but they slither downwards whenever he moves, exposing a wide swath of diaper and eventually transforming him into the World’s Tiniest Gangsta Wannabe. I’m not sure what to do about this, other than spreading peanut butter on virtually everything he eats. Suspenders seem like the best option for humorous purposes—plus, convenient handles!—but I suppose a belt would be less emotionally traumatic.
Until we’ve made it through our respective Awkward Body Shape stages, I think both the boy and I need muumuus. Hey, I think there might be a hot business idea there! Come on, if someone’s buying this stuff (hork), surely they’ll go for the the Mommy & Me Matching Muumuu.
Sep
16
September 16, 2007
JB’s parents were planning to stop by our house on the return drive from their trip to Banff, and when I heard they were set to arrive on Monday I thought, sweet, that’s when the cleaning people come. No pre-visitor spit-shining necessary! (Note to any potential visitors: no actual spit typically involved. Well, not my spit anyway.)
Then the visit was rescheduled for Saturday, and I was all, fooey, now I have to 409 the guest bathroom with my own delicate petal-soft fingers. L’ennui est moi! And then on Friday afternoon while contractors swarmed our house like bees and every surface of my house had an inch-thick layer of sawdust and I was unshowered and unkempt and our evening plans contained nothing more taxing than perhaps a brisk lie-down on the couch in front of Season 1 Disc 1 of Dexter, JB informed me that his parents were in fact going to be arriving in, uh, about an hour and a half.
Now, I’m not totally against spontaneity as a general rule, but in certain situations I find it frustrating when there are DEVIATIONS FROM THE PLAN. When you have ninety minutes to make both your house and self marginally presentable, for instance.
Of course, once the flurry of preparation was over and everyone had arrived and there was a nearly disgusting amount of grandparent-grandchild bonding going on, it was all good, especially since their presence allowed JB and I to escape to not one but two movies (3:10 to Yuma and Shoot ‘Em Up, both of which were highly satisfying [in entirely different ways] and featured men with oh-so-lickable cheekbones), and even a sushi dinner (don’t even look at me like that, I had the cooked variety. And just a single serving of blowfish).
It’s a little chaotic having houseguests while the kitchen is off limits, in part because we’re limited to picnic-ware until I once again have a sink I can wash things in. I delivered my Destroy the Earth speech about how no, we aren’t saving the plastic utensils and re-washing them (specifically, *I* am not washing them, anyone else is more than welcome to do so), we are throwing them right the hell away, but JB’s parents are chronic savers (just try and throw out any leftovers that could technically be termed as “edible” around these guys, didn’t you know that someone could totally eat that half-bite of potato salad later? Except no one ever does, of course, and THAT is how you end up with raccoons in the fridge) and I kept finding these cups half-full of water with dirty forks and spoons stuck in them, multiple little pre-soak stations for the washing up that I had no intention of doing.
Also, I say this with affection, but neither of JB’s parents can eat an entire banana. Half is their preferred serving size, and so after breakfast there is always half a banana lying there like a sex crime victim, its peel barely covering the sadly exposed flesh within. And the next thing you know, you’re batting wildly at the air in front of you, because motherfucking fruit flies.
They left this morning and while the house feels a little more manageable now, there’s also a palpable emptiness in their wake. Riley has been a massive pain in the ass since their departure, and it makes me remember being a child myself and how my grandparents were magical, wondrous creatures whose visits were even better than Christmas. Grandparents are patient, they want to play all of the time, and they always think their grandchildren are perfect. No wonder he’s pissed off, now he’s stuck with his boring old parents, who in turn are feeling like those child-free evenings were very fine indeed, and in some cases if we are to be completely honest over here, a movie and a box of Milk Duds completely trumps parenting a toddler.
So that’s my news. Tell me, what did you do this weekend?
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