A shameful amount of time has passed since last I blogged of the 1980s daycare freakshow. Days have flown by and the belly has grown substantially, until a couple of weeks ago I suddenly awoke looking pregnant with a capital P. I'd read of this mythical "popping," and at just shy of six-and-a-half months, there it went - just in time to fly up north and cram myself into a bridesmaid's dress for my best friend's wedding.
I bought the dress back in December while home for the holidays, the day after I found out I was pregnant. In fact, I shared the good news with said best friend as I was rooting through the dress rack at the bridal shop. It went something like this:
Ecstatic, poor-secret-keeping Me: "I should probably pick something with an empire waist." (root root)
Distracted Her: "Mmmhmmm..."
Persistant Me: "Yep, I think I'll be a bit bigger by May." (root root root)
Slow-on-the-uptake Her: "Okay."
Rapidly-losing-patience Me: "Something very flowy, so I can waddle down the aisle..." (roooooooot)
Still-clueless Her: "Yeah, yeah...oh, so when do you find out if you're pregnant?"
Cut to Joyous Me, whipping positive pregnancy test out of pocket and thrusting it into her face. Joyful shrieks ensue.
After trying on seemingly every dress under the sun that day, I ultimately bought a long, lovely gown with a low, adjustable back and said a prayer to the baby gods in hopes that it would prove bump-friendly. It didn't arrive at the bridal shop until April, and I did not try it on until three days before the wedding. After crossing my fingers for many belly-swelling weeks, I finally slithered (if such a word can actually apply to a six-and-a-half months pregnant woman) into the dress, blindly determined to somehow jerryrig it so that it would successfully encompass my increasing girth. Alterations be damned!
Miraculously, the damn thing fit. I had to hike the skirt up just slightly over the bump, leaving a small amount of excess fabric in the armpit vicinity, but guests were none the wiser. Hallelujah! I did not waddle naked down the aisle after all (or worse, clad in some kind of hideous muumuu-like substitute).
The wedding was beautiful. The bride was glowing, the tears were flowing, and love was in the air. Most importantly, I neither passed out from heat exhaustion in the 95-degree weather nor collapsed beneath the weight of my ginormous belly whilst traipsing down the aisle in four-inch heels.
Miracles all around.
