None of my maternity shirts cover The Belly anymore. My selection of maternity pants that fit is slowly dwindling. My feet are too swollen to fit into shoes, so I’m wearing flip flops. That’s so sad. But also? Funny. Because what’s more funny than seeing a pregnant woman waddling down the street, trying to look office professional, in a shirt-come-tube top and busting-at-the-seams, skin tight pants, her bare feet slap-slap-slapping in her ratty old sandals? Not much, I imagine.
Speaking of waddling. I’m now an official waddler. You can laugh if you see me. I would. But keep in mind that I am waddling out of pure pain and discomfort. It just kind of manifests itself into a funny little cartoon duck walk.
I’m like an over-stuffed sausage duck.
In other clothing-related news, I began packing my bag for the hospital when I realized that my only set of maternity pyjamas (or any kind pyjamas, for that matter) is the same pair I wore to the hospital with Eirinn. How vain and superficial would it be of me to buy a new set simply because I don’t want to be wearing the same pj’s in the pictures taken at the hospital? At home, I wear my regular pj’s and just let my belly hang out, so if I did buy new ones, they would be a one time use type deal.
Also, on the vanity front, is it weird that I am totally going to bring my makeup and insist on touch ups before pictures? Because my pictures with Eirinn, after 12 hours of labour (which started in the middle of the night, so that would have been about 18 hours since any food had been eaten, 28 hours since makeup had been applied, and 29 hours since any sleep had been had) were scary. Like Night of the Living Dead scary.
I know, I know, I know. No one looks at the mother in the baby pictures. But I do. And when I look at myself in the pictures, I want to look just as fresh and perfect as the mothers from A Baby Story. Without the aid of an entire hair and makeup team.