Ha! It finally happened! I felt something!!! I’ve been feeling some “bubbles” and wiggles and various “movements” since last week but I wasn’t sure–since I can hardly tell the difference between the gurgles and bubbles that eating lots of Mexican food creates. But yesterday, it was distinct. I must have felt five or six solid flips. It was like a little thump of your finger but also kind of like that feeling when you get an eyeball spasm or a hiccup. Like it just happens and you didn’t tell your body to do that, so why is it doing that? It’s very very strange in a totally cool way. I’m so excited. I think my kid is having fun in there.

Or maybe it was the caffeine from that Lipton unsweetened iced tea that I drank yesterday on an empty stomach.

Nothing Fits

I had my first real hormone-driven emotional outburst today. Poor Toby. He got a roll of scotch tape winged off the side of his head. I really scared him. The outburst came out of no where and he wasn’t expecting to be struck by a flying roll of tape. It was just within reach and I grabbed it and threw it across the room without a blip of rational thought going through my head.

What brought on this crazed outburst of violence? My stupid wardrobe. I have this multi-tiered stretchy skirt from Target and nothing goes with it. I bought it thinking every thing would go with it. I was fooled. Since it’s already tiered and ruffly it tends to lean towards the bunchy-frumpy-side of fashion, not really a good look for me right now. I’m sure it looks fabulous on stick figure, six-foot model types. But not me.

I really have to have the exact perfect, just-right shirt to go with it. Nothing too small because well, I’m just not liking my bare belly right now (maybe because it’s a couple of shades lighter than the rest of me) and it can’t be too big because then I feel like I’m wearing two lampshades. This skirt is driving me crazy.

I come out into the living room, modeling my old non-maternity too tight shirt. Toby is reading a magazine. When I ask his opinion, he says nothing. I go back and try on the too big maternity shirt and ask his opinion again. He says nothing. I tell him it’s really important that I get his opinion on this because I respect his taste and I’m really feeling dowdy and desperate right now.

He says something under his breath that to me sounds like, “Well, that’s your problem.”

Suddenly the wrath of a hundred angry fire breathing dragons takes over my brain and I yell, “THIS IS NOT JUST MY PROBLEM!” And then I grab the nearest thing within reach (a roll of double stick tape) and fling it across the room with all my might, whacking him in the side of the head. “THIS IS OUR PROBLEM!!! I’M NOT DOING THIS PREGNANCY THING ALL BY MYSELF!” I storm off to our bedroom and melt into sobs behind the closed door.

What has become of me? I’m losing it over a stupid shirt! Or maybe I’m just feeling scared because all these changes are very scary to me and sometimes I feel so alone in it all. It’s not that Toby isn’t there for me but sometimes I wish there was someone to listen to me who was as all-consumed by this pregnancy thing as I am. I seriously think about it 20-some hours a day! When I’m not thinking about it, I’m thinking about where I’m going to get my next burrito because I’m craving Mexican food morning, noon and night. I am a lunatic.

Thankfully, Toby is not a complete moron and he comes into the room to see what’s wrong with me. He explains that he didn’t say, “that’s your problem.” He said, “the skirt is your problem.” But I didn’t hear the “skirt” part.

He’s right, it is the skirt that is the problem. Stupid #$!@ skirt. Nothing goes with it! Somehow Toby calms me down and sends me off to the mall to find a shirt that does go with it. I hate shopping and I really hate shopping when I’m emotional, but I pull myself together and drive off to the crowded mall.

Hooo Boy! The mall, that’s another story. First I try Forever 21 because my stylish friend, Kate, told me you can find all kinds of great stretchy shirts there for super cheap. She says they work great for maternity as long as you get them in large. I hit the racks. It’s a mad house. There are bus loads of teeny-boppers everywhere. But what’s even more disconcerting is that there are literally thousands and thousands of stretchy tops that hang limply on hangers looking like sad sacks. I can’t visualize a single one of them looking cute on me. And I really can’t try every single one on because the line for the changing room is a mile long. Those Forever 21 folks really hit the jack pot with the cheaply made clothing. They must employ sweatshops in Singapore to keep up with all these teenagers and thirty-something women buying little bits of cloth that promise to make them look like they’re 21. In spite of the chaos, I manage to find two stretchy t-shirts that gather on the sides and fit my round belly snugly. I only spend 32 bucks. Not bad!

Next, I decide to browse in the fancy boutique maternity store, Japanese Weekend. I want to say “big mistake” but it’s not a complete mistake, it’s just different. It’s just so on the other end of the scale from the mad house of Forever 21, that I don’t even know what to say. First of all, there are two sales women that hit you up right away with their hard-core sales pitch before you are even two steps into the store. It’s nice to get some attention for a change but they rattle on so much, I can hardly hear myself think.

Secondly, like all the boutiques in our mall, there are only two racks of clothing lining both sides of the store. It’s pretty much a one-line-per-season type of store. If you don’t like the color scheme, then you better come back in a few months when they get their next line in. The women are very helpful and they explain more about waist bands than I’ve ever even thought about in my life time. They stack me up with their latest ensemble and send me off to the dressing room.

Of course there are no mirrors in the dressing room so I have to go back out into the store to see if things fit. This is their trick. As I’m checking out my ever-expanding butt in the mirror, they swoop in for the kill. “Oh, look how cute you look in those! What a great color on you! Those were made for you… bla bla bla…” I’m reeling because when I look at the price tag the “made for me” pants are three times what I wanted to spend. How do I tell these women that I just can’t drop that kind of change on something I’ll only wear for maybe five more months. Of course I’ll probably wear them after the baby too but I just can’t make decisions like this on the spot with crazy sales women cooing over me. “Have you tried our maternity bras? Do you see how the waste band expands? You must buy our specially formulated hypo-allergenic stretch mark cream! What! You don’t use any lotion! The sacrilege! Try this! Try that! Buy! Buy! Buy!!!…”

I’d like to say I ran screaming from the store at that point but I didn’t. I did buy the jean skirt with the special expanding waste band that cost three times more than it should. I did buy the crazy loud paisley printed stretchy shirt with the secret flip up band that allows instant access to your boobs for nursing after the baby is born. Maybe I’m a sucker. Maybe they just wore me down… or maybe the clothes really were cute and I rationalized.

Before I could get myself into more trouble, I bee-lined it for the mall’s food court, bought myself a burrito and sat down to eat so I could run through all my over-spending justification arguments for Toby. He likes me to have nice things, it’s just that I wasn’t sure he was going to go for me spending $150 on nice things. Especially $150 worth of nice things that I’m probably only going to wear for a year. Maybe two, if I get pregnant again before they go completely out of style. Not a likely scenario, since it already took us four years to get pregnant the first time.

When I get home and go over my purchases with Toby, he is super cool about it! He likes the skirt. He sorta likes the loud paisley top too (as long as I promise not to wear it with anything else loud and garish). He’s not even mad about my spending. I’m so lucky today. I think he knows that I just really needed something nice today, or maybe he just doesn’t want to get hit by any more flying objects.