I value sleep tremendously, mainly because it's never come easily. Some of my earliest memories involve lonely insomnia - lying there, wide awake in the wee hours, wondering why mommy's sheep-counting didn't work for shit as soon as she exited the room and I was left alone in the dark.
My inability to slumber inevitably led to one of two reactions: mild mischief, or downright evil-doing. I would either sit quietly and build massive block structures until my mother wandered by, scolded gently and ushered me back to bed, or, the more exciting alternative: I would bounce joyously out from under the covers and creep silently out of my room.
There, I would cautiously peer around the corner and down the hallway to where my parents sat eating dinner and calmly discussing their respective days, no doubt relishing the few kid-free moments rarely afforded them while raising three little hellions. I would wait patiently, lurking in the darkness until the conversation had reached an appropriately pleasant lull. Then, seizing my moment, I would hop out of the shadows, leap on my Big Wheel, and go careening down the hallway at breakneck speed, all the while screaming at the top of my lungs like a towheaded banshee. On a good night, I would crash into the kitchen table with a satisfying boom.
My insomnia partially stemmed from the fact that I was TERRIFIED of the dark. As a result, I refused to sleep without the light on, and spent the majority of my childhood bathed in the reassuring glow of a 70-watt bulb streaming down on my little bed. Every so often, my mother would walk by, listen to my breathing until she was certain I was sleeping, and turn out the light. If she had misjudged and I had not yet drifted off to sleepyland, this would ellicit a series of shrill, ear-piercing shrieks until she returned and flipped the switch. Truth be told, the fear of the dark lasted for years, alleviated only by adorning my bedroom walls with countless glow-in-the-dark adhesive stars sometime in junior high.
Not content to merely be a moderate pain in the ass, I descended into true brattiness when I decided that I could no longer sleep without my Fisher Price record player playing at top volume.
I loved my record player - it was white and orange, and possessed a fascinating number of kid-friendly buttons for pressing and poking. Every night between the ages of 4 and 10 (and possibly older, though I'll never admit to it), my mother would put on my favorite record - Disney's Peter Pan soundtrack. It was one of those amazing illustrated records, with art from the movie covering every spare inch, enabling me to listen while simultaneously watching Peter and Wendy spin around and around and around until I entered a trance-like, meditative state. Once it was playing, my mother would sit with me until I was lulled to a sufficient wooziness and then creep quietly out of the room, leaving me to drift happily off to sleep under the blazing artificial lights beneath my pink-and-white flowered sheets on my big girl's daybed.
However, there was a crimp in the plan - my Fisher Price beauty was prone to skipping, so every so often there would come a jarring moment in the middle of "You Can Fly!" or some such classic when Peter would suddenly descend into lunacy and start repeating himself over and over and over. Inevitably, this would snatch me from even the deepest pre-slumber calm and send me into near hysterics as I lay there screaming "MOMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!" until she came to remedy the situation.
Looking back as an adult, I have never considered myself to have been a pampered child. However, as I write these words, I realize that I must face the truth: if I couldn't be bothered to get up, walk 18 inches and poke the needle myself, I was officially spoiled.
As I grew older and my fear of the dark dissipated, a new terror arose to take its place. One fateful night, during my parents' unwise attempt at trusting my oldest brother to babysit, I wandered into the living room where he had just popped George Romero's classic "Night of the Living Dead" into the Beta. I sat, transfixed, and watched the whole thing.
Now, if you haven't seen this fine family film, let me tell you what it can teach you (especially when you're 8):
Lesson one: In case of zombie attack, SHOOT THEM IN THE HEAD. It's the only way to kill those motherfuckers.
Lesson two: In case of zombie attack, BARRICADE THE WINDOWS. It's clearly the best preventative measure, as evidenced by the tactics of the film's main characters in their creepy house out in the woods.
By the end of the film, I was sitting petrified in the middle of my living room, shrouded in blankets, too terrified to even turn my head toward our massive WALL OF WINDOWS looking out onto the forest. Somehow I managed to creep back into my bedroom, where all the lights in the world could not have saved me from the terror-inducing FLOOR TO CEILING WINDOW WALL occupying one side of my room, which, conveniently, had nary a curtain or blind to block out the legions of undead doubtlessly lurking outside. Where was a gun when I needed it??
For the next several years, it's a miracle I slept at all. Finally I saw the film again at age 11, during a Halloween party at school. It took much convincing - and the fear of being the laughingstock of the 6th grade - to brave the classroom that day. After adamantly insisting to my classmates that it was doubtlessly the most terrifying film ever made and that they were all fools who would rue the day that they had it burned onto their psyches, I sat amongst them and watched, ready to hightail it out of there at the slightest provocation.
I was certain that they'd all be horrified, that they would come to me afterward, begging forgiveness for their flippant, ignorant ways, for laughing in the face of danger, screaming to the heavens, "Why, oh WHY hadn't we listened to the brilliant, all-knowing, zombie-saavy Paige??"
Instead, in the first ten minutes of the film, I heard something bizarre - laughter. A chuckle here, a giggle there - suddenly the whole room was alive with pre-pubescent cackling. Looking at the screen, I slowly joined them - zombies my ass! Wahaha! Who did the make-up for these poor fools? Look at that one! His prosthetic flesh is peeling off!
In the blink of an eye, my greatest fear went from terror-inducing, bloodthirsty undead hellbent on taking me out to desperately underpaid overactors with questionable special effects make-up causing them to resemble strung-out trannies (still disturbing, but at least they didn't want to eat my face). From that moment on, I was a card-carrying zombie fan.
During my freshman year of college, the insomnia that had improved in high school was exacerbated anew with the advent of a snoring roommate. To this day, I cannot fathom how such a massive sound could come out of such a tiny person. After countless sleepless nights, I resorted to simply chucking pillows at her head from across the room. Not particularly effective, yet satisfying nonetheless.
Miraculously, in recent years I've slept like a baby (and not a crying, screaming one, either - a happy, well-nourished, angelic, sleeps-through-the-night infant - like I'm sure LOOL will be). Though I'm still a light sleeper, I am now free of the many hang-ups and paranoias that previously crept up to taunt me at bedtime. For the first time, I love sleeping - and I excel at it.
Until recently. If you aren't aware, a woman is not supposed to sleep on her back during pregnancy. Evidently, the weight of a pregnant woman's massive, baby-containing uterus can impair breathing and circulation, cause changes in blood pressure, and put pressure on the vena cava, restricting bloodflow between the lower body and the heart. In short - bad for both mom and baby.
I discovered this when I was about 16 weeks along, and immediately made every effort to stay off my back during the night. I knew this would prove difficult - when I am capable of sleep, I'm a bonefide back sleeper. My favorite position is lying with my arms over my head in the plie position, perhaps the one thing I retained from my two years of childhood ballet. However, with my uterus growing rounder and heavier with each passing day, I was determined to change positions.
I initially accomplished this by propping two pillows on either side of my body and wedging myself into bed on my side, at an angle that rendered it nearly impossible for me to move, let alone flop on my back. Surrounded by my fluffy friends, I could scarcely see my lovely husband sleeping next to me. Oh well, I told myself. A small price to pay for a healthy LOOL. See ya in August, honey.
Until recently, this method has worked rather well. In conjunction with the "No back! No back! No back!" mantra I repeat to myself before getting into bed, it seems to have helped me sleep soundly on my side all night long. However, in the past week or so, I've repeatedly awakened in the middle of the night flat on my back. Invariably, this causes me to immediately begin silently chastising myself for my naughty back-sleepin' ways while flopping about searching for an acceptable alternative, until I become so worked up that I'm unable to go back to sleep at all.
Last night, I decided to try something new. I had read that back sleeping is acceptable as long as you are at an incline. Somehow, this alleviates the pressure from the uterus, and all is good and fine in the world. Excellent, I thought. Grabbing an old comforter, I folded and wedged it against my headboard, then topped it off with two pillows. Lying back, I congratulated myself on what seemed like a brilliant alternative - my head and torso were a full foot above my belly! Take that, vena cava!
As I lay back and prepared to slumber, I looked down at my husband, far beneath me on one side of the bed, and the floor, very, very far below on the other side. Leaning back and forth on my tower of bedding, I realized that my grand idea was also somewhat of a precarious perch. I struggled to get comfortable as my stack o' padding listed disconcertingly to one side and then another. Eventually, I managed to fall asleep.
I awoke this morning after a fitful night, neck aching, still atop my mound yet minus one pillow that I'd evidently deemed hateful in the middle of the night and chucked angrily across the room. Now I sit typing these words, unable to turn my head easily from side to side. It appears that my new method is flawed.
Back to square one. But at least I'm zombie-free.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
Warning
Although I'm admittedly very fortunate to have had a stress-free pregnancy thus far, there is one thing that has begun to annoy me tremendously. I have discovered that other people now feel they have carte blanche to freely comment on my increasing girth, like the scarlet P on my forehead prevents me from taking any offense, and instead I should simple chuckle merrily in some round, jolly, Santa-like way and gaily waddle off down the hall. Before you think I am merely being hypersensitive, let me give some examples.
There is a woman who works down the hall as some kind of file clerk/data processor hybrid. She's normally very pleasant, possessing an easy laugh and the ability to call everyone "Mama" - from the mail delivery lady to the deli counter worker - without sounding like a total whackjob. We've always had a friendly rapport, so at 12 weeks into my pregnancy, on the day that I first spread the word about little LOOL, I went by her desk to show off my ultrasound photos and share the news. Without missing a beat, she replied, "Oh, I knew it. Because you have a little belly now."
It was at that moment that our alliance turned sour.
My friends, I can honestly say that, at 12 weeks along and one pound up, there was no belly. My rational brain knew this, and yet I still regret not having the wherewithal to respond, "Well, I notice that you have a little belly too - are you expecting?"
From exactly 1 til 2 pm daily, this woman sits in the lunchroom/kitchen and holds court with a gaggle of other workers. They screech merrily as they nosh on their Lean Cuisine Chicken Piccatas and suck down their Diet Cokes. Their voices echo into the hallway, where yours truly is lucky enough to sit right outside and have every word pound straight into my skull. Everyone on the floor knows to avoid the kitchen area during this hour, lest they be exposed to the grating noise as the group extolls their shrill opinions about everything from politics ("I just don't know about this Obama guy...") to religion ("It wasn't til I found my Lord and savior that I...") to shoe-shopping ("Walmart has great flip-flops!").
Being a brave, frugal soul who brings her lunch to work, I courageously persist in infiltrating their circle on a daily basis to microwave, toast and rinse as needed. Generally, I wander quietly into the cacophony, go about my business, and leave them to their cackles, minimizing interaction where possible.
Monday was just like any other day - I entered, pulled my lunch out of the fridge (homemade organic black bean and cheese quesadilla with kale - mmm), and popped it into the microwave.
Suddenly, I heard a screech - "Oh my GAWD!"
I turn to find The Woman staring at me from across the room - or rather, staring in the general direction of my stomach. Of course, this attracted the attention of the whole herd, and suddenly the room fell silent as eight sets of intrusive eyes barreled down on me, piercing my physique.
"Lookit that BIG BELLY! I can even tell from the BACK now - you're totally straight!"
Once again, I was shocked and annoyed into silence, and found myself at a (rare) loss for words. I babbled, "Yes, well, I've kind of always looked like that from the back, but THANKS for noticing," then escaped as quickly as possible and sat kicking myself at my desk, wondering why I couldn't have come up with a snappier reply.
The same day, I was returning to my desk from another office when I heard it again: "OH MY GOD!"
I turned to face the latest culprit - an IT tech that I've always liked. Looking me over, he said "Wow! Last week you had nothing, and now - BAM! You're huge!"
Appropriate and satisfying response unfortunately not given by me: "So are you! Much like last week!"
Dear readers, I must tell you something: I am not huge. I am aware of this, although frankly, even if I were to be huge, more power to me! I'm five-and-a-half-months PREGNANT, you assholes!
So far I have gained twelve pounds, which is right on track. I embrace my new curves and I am proud of my little tummy - after all, it's where my BABY IS GROWING, you insensitive bitches! Was I just so freakishly thin before that it is somehow INCREDIBLE that I now have a little gut? Or are these people just jackasses who feel that it's some kind of compliment to freely point out the "hugeness" of another person?
Now, I am a firm believer that there are right and wrong ways to comment on a pregnant woman's changing form. Almost everyone else I know gets it right - for instance: "Aww, you're beginning to show! It's so cute!" "Hi Mommy! I love your belly! You look great!" or even "Wow! Can I touch it? You're getting round!" All of these comments are acceptable, and make me want to spontaneously embrace the individual delivering the statement.
The Woman and IT Guy evidently missed the "social etiquette during pregnancy" memo. I am hoping that they will henceforth refrain from further commentary, or at least save it for moments when I'm not holding sharp objects. I fear that they may ellicit some kind of hormone-crazed pregnancy rage, and I really can't be held responsible for my actions.
Walk softly and fear the wild-eyed pregnant lady.
There is a woman who works down the hall as some kind of file clerk/data processor hybrid. She's normally very pleasant, possessing an easy laugh and the ability to call everyone "Mama" - from the mail delivery lady to the deli counter worker - without sounding like a total whackjob. We've always had a friendly rapport, so at 12 weeks into my pregnancy, on the day that I first spread the word about little LOOL, I went by her desk to show off my ultrasound photos and share the news. Without missing a beat, she replied, "Oh, I knew it. Because you have a little belly now."
It was at that moment that our alliance turned sour.
My friends, I can honestly say that, at 12 weeks along and one pound up, there was no belly. My rational brain knew this, and yet I still regret not having the wherewithal to respond, "Well, I notice that you have a little belly too - are you expecting?"
From exactly 1 til 2 pm daily, this woman sits in the lunchroom/kitchen and holds court with a gaggle of other workers. They screech merrily as they nosh on their Lean Cuisine Chicken Piccatas and suck down their Diet Cokes. Their voices echo into the hallway, where yours truly is lucky enough to sit right outside and have every word pound straight into my skull. Everyone on the floor knows to avoid the kitchen area during this hour, lest they be exposed to the grating noise as the group extolls their shrill opinions about everything from politics ("I just don't know about this Obama guy...") to religion ("It wasn't til I found my Lord and savior that I...") to shoe-shopping ("Walmart has great flip-flops!").
Being a brave, frugal soul who brings her lunch to work, I courageously persist in infiltrating their circle on a daily basis to microwave, toast and rinse as needed. Generally, I wander quietly into the cacophony, go about my business, and leave them to their cackles, minimizing interaction where possible.
Monday was just like any other day - I entered, pulled my lunch out of the fridge (homemade organic black bean and cheese quesadilla with kale - mmm), and popped it into the microwave.
Suddenly, I heard a screech - "Oh my GAWD!"
I turn to find The Woman staring at me from across the room - or rather, staring in the general direction of my stomach. Of course, this attracted the attention of the whole herd, and suddenly the room fell silent as eight sets of intrusive eyes barreled down on me, piercing my physique.
"Lookit that BIG BELLY! I can even tell from the BACK now - you're totally straight!"
Once again, I was shocked and annoyed into silence, and found myself at a (rare) loss for words. I babbled, "Yes, well, I've kind of always looked like that from the back, but THANKS for noticing," then escaped as quickly as possible and sat kicking myself at my desk, wondering why I couldn't have come up with a snappier reply.
The same day, I was returning to my desk from another office when I heard it again: "OH MY GOD!"
I turned to face the latest culprit - an IT tech that I've always liked. Looking me over, he said "Wow! Last week you had nothing, and now - BAM! You're huge!"
Appropriate and satisfying response unfortunately not given by me: "So are you! Much like last week!"
Dear readers, I must tell you something: I am not huge. I am aware of this, although frankly, even if I were to be huge, more power to me! I'm five-and-a-half-months PREGNANT, you assholes!
So far I have gained twelve pounds, which is right on track. I embrace my new curves and I am proud of my little tummy - after all, it's where my BABY IS GROWING, you insensitive bitches! Was I just so freakishly thin before that it is somehow INCREDIBLE that I now have a little gut? Or are these people just jackasses who feel that it's some kind of compliment to freely point out the "hugeness" of another person?
Now, I am a firm believer that there are right and wrong ways to comment on a pregnant woman's changing form. Almost everyone else I know gets it right - for instance: "Aww, you're beginning to show! It's so cute!" "Hi Mommy! I love your belly! You look great!" or even "Wow! Can I touch it? You're getting round!" All of these comments are acceptable, and make me want to spontaneously embrace the individual delivering the statement.
The Woman and IT Guy evidently missed the "social etiquette during pregnancy" memo. I am hoping that they will henceforth refrain from further commentary, or at least save it for moments when I'm not holding sharp objects. I fear that they may ellicit some kind of hormone-crazed pregnancy rage, and I really can't be held responsible for my actions.
Walk softly and fear the wild-eyed pregnant lady.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Daycare Wars
I'm a planner by nature. I'm proud to say that I planned my whole wedding, from proposal to "I do," in exactly five months and five days. I enjoyed obsessing over the minutia - deciding precisely which texture of chocolate brown paper to use for the programs and placecards, what shade of red best complimented the crisp tablecloths, and exactly how to place the favor bags to ensure that they would lie properly at each place setting. When I was a little girl, I would lock myself in my bedroom and rearrange furniture when I was upset. In short - I was born organized.
In early 2008, my husband and I decided to start trying to get pregnant toward the end of the year, after we'd had a full 12 months of blissfully married domesticity. In keeping with my fastidious (some would say obsessive-compulsive) personality, I began preparing myself a full six months prior to baby-makin' time. Prenatal vitamins were popped daily. All of my (much beloved) toxic beauty products were tossed and replaced with fetus-friendly substitutes. Conventional fruits and vegetables were forgone in favor of their organic counterparts. Cloth diaper varieties were meticulously researched. Baby product reviews were read; brands were evaluated and cross-referenced for safety. Basically, I lost my mind.
At last, I emerged at the dawn of 2009, newly pregnant and ready to contentedly gestate until August, knowing that I had done all I can to prepare for LOOL's arrival. Until one day, when I realized that I had neglected one crucial question in my zealous planning - who will take care of the baby when I go back to work?
Mind you, it's not like I hadn't thought about it. Happy, nurturing Mary Poppins-esque nannies had occasionally drifted in and out of the transom of my mind, most of which was occupied contemplating BPA-free bottles, nontoxic hardwood cribs and naturally-dyed organic cotton onesies. Perhaps I assumed (stupidly) that I would simply pawn the baby off on my grandchild-eager mother-in-law when I returned to the office. Alternatively, my husband and I had discussed the possibilty of him working from home a couple of days a week - maybe I thought we would simply hire in-home help for the remaining days to supplement. Ultimately, I have no idea what the hell I was thinking, because about a month ago I recognized a crucial and terrifying fact: finding a good daycare is the Mommy Olympics.
I came to this realization when I finally pulled my head out of the foggy first-trimester fatigue in which I'd been floating for three months and began to investigate local childcare options, operating on the principle that it never hurts to have a back-up plan, should the put-mother-in-law-to-work thing fall through. I'm in the television industry, and my massive studio is generous enough to provide a children's center for its lucky employees. For a hefty monthly fee, you can rest assured that your kid is cared for by top-notch professionals and engaged in stimulating, brain-developing, Mensa-worthy play, as evidenced by a mythical live video feed they are said to provide, allowing parents to snoop freely on their child's daily activities without leaving the comfort of their offices. I'd heard of this magical place, where happy babies roam freely under the watchful eye of caring, CPR-certified teachers, and parents are strongly encouraged to visit their little puddings throughout the day, helping to both ease their yuppie guilt and remind their children that mom n' dad don't entirely drop off the face of the planet between the hours of 9 and 6pm.
Yes, the Children's Center is a beacon of good childcare - a shining pillar of responsible parenting. It also happens to have a two to three year waiting list. Hearing this, prospective mothers company-wide immediately begin to salivate with base, wanton need, much like all good Los Angelenos faced with an object of desire. A slot in the Children's Center is more exclusive than any movie premiere or sample sale, driving even the sanest women to immeasurable lengths.
At my company, it is very common for a newly pregnant woman to share the good news with two individuals - first Husband, then Children's Center Director. One woman, a friend of a friend, called the Center immediately after peeing on the stick, nabbing a spot on the holy list even before informing her husband of his impending little bundle. Yesterday I found myself cursing under my breath when I discovered that a new mother on the first floor of the building somehow had had the good fortune to have her new baby immediately placed in a coveted spot at the illustrious facility. "What the HELL?!? How did her kid get in there? She's not even six months! F___ that! Who the hell does she know?"
It's a ruthless, vicious game, one which I am not proud to play.
Pre-pregnancy, I wasn't too worried about childcare, mostly due to the fact that I was living vicariously though a good friend and co-worker of mine: she was due to give birth in February, and throughout her pregnancy, the Children's Center had repeatedly assured her that her child should be able to "get right in." Evidently, they like to take their three-month-olds at the beginning of each summer, which meant that her little one should simply waltz in and take his spot, like proverbial baby royalty.
Doesn't seem so tough to me, I thought, popping my prenatal and smearing on my organic sunblock. Ah, youthful optimism.
Turns out that my friend's baby came over six weeks early. When she called to inform the Children's Center, she was told that, unfortunately, they would no longer have a spot for him - he was now "too old" to gain a precious place in their June baby roster. This hideous declaration left my friend with a premature newborn, a fading maternity leave, and - gasp! - no back-up plan!
Hearing this horror story, my vague, lackadaisical childcare plan was blown to smithereens. This almost certainly left my August baby spurned, rejected, left to roam daycare-less through the mean streets of Burbank! I had (stupidly) harbored hopes of simply pummeling down the Children's Center's door, charming them with my passion and persistence, and shooting to the top of the list in no time. Clearly, this was not to be.
One by one, the bitter realities hit me: My mother-in-law cannot be relied upon as our sole source of baby support! We cannot remotely afford an in-home nanny! And THE CHILDREN'S CENTER IS RUN BY NAZIS!
I had to act fast. At four months pregnant, my frantic search began. I became a daycare fiend. Googling maniacally, poring over Craig's List and harassing mommy friends for referrals, all the while self-flagellating: How could I leave this to the last minute?? What kind of mommy am I? My baby must not be left in the Los Angeles lack-of-daycare cold, by damn! I must find an appropriately trustworthy human to care for my child!
But - dear god - where??
And so began my quest. Over its course, I have discovered something remarkable. In this brave new world, people do not flinch when you tell them you are looking for care eight months in advance, nor do they think you're remotely insane for putting your unborn fetus on a waiting list. If anything, I felt that - at 20 weeks pregnant - I'd waited too long. When a co-worker whose wife is due three weeks after me recently bragged about all the daycares they'd toured, about the multitude of waiting lists they were on, I had to quell the urge to rise up and claw his face.
At long last, my fanatical search culminated in two other local daycares, both with waiting lists equivalent to the evil Children's Center, and another lovely little place - a Montessori school with, amazingly, no list at all. I toured the latter, expecting to find a veritable baby ghetto, a slophouse not up to waiting list quality, an infant crackden of pestilence and disease not worthy of mommy-lust.
Instead, I was pleased to discover a clean, safe place full of happy, smiling, non-ghetto-dwelling babies. I would share the name, but other pregnant locals could be reading this, in which case: TOO BAD, SUCKAS! Every baby for itself!
Between this facility and four other small, in-home places I found, I am feeling pretty good about my options these days. My sense of organizational self-worth has been rejuvenated. LOOL will not be left to fend for him/herself in a rat-filled crackden. I can once again wear my Good Mom hat with pride.
Future Mommies, heed my advice and beware - it's a daycare jungle out there.
In early 2008, my husband and I decided to start trying to get pregnant toward the end of the year, after we'd had a full 12 months of blissfully married domesticity. In keeping with my fastidious (some would say obsessive-compulsive) personality, I began preparing myself a full six months prior to baby-makin' time. Prenatal vitamins were popped daily. All of my (much beloved) toxic beauty products were tossed and replaced with fetus-friendly substitutes. Conventional fruits and vegetables were forgone in favor of their organic counterparts. Cloth diaper varieties were meticulously researched. Baby product reviews were read; brands were evaluated and cross-referenced for safety. Basically, I lost my mind.
At last, I emerged at the dawn of 2009, newly pregnant and ready to contentedly gestate until August, knowing that I had done all I can to prepare for LOOL's arrival. Until one day, when I realized that I had neglected one crucial question in my zealous planning - who will take care of the baby when I go back to work?
Mind you, it's not like I hadn't thought about it. Happy, nurturing Mary Poppins-esque nannies had occasionally drifted in and out of the transom of my mind, most of which was occupied contemplating BPA-free bottles, nontoxic hardwood cribs and naturally-dyed organic cotton onesies. Perhaps I assumed (stupidly) that I would simply pawn the baby off on my grandchild-eager mother-in-law when I returned to the office. Alternatively, my husband and I had discussed the possibilty of him working from home a couple of days a week - maybe I thought we would simply hire in-home help for the remaining days to supplement. Ultimately, I have no idea what the hell I was thinking, because about a month ago I recognized a crucial and terrifying fact: finding a good daycare is the Mommy Olympics.
I came to this realization when I finally pulled my head out of the foggy first-trimester fatigue in which I'd been floating for three months and began to investigate local childcare options, operating on the principle that it never hurts to have a back-up plan, should the put-mother-in-law-to-work thing fall through. I'm in the television industry, and my massive studio is generous enough to provide a children's center for its lucky employees. For a hefty monthly fee, you can rest assured that your kid is cared for by top-notch professionals and engaged in stimulating, brain-developing, Mensa-worthy play, as evidenced by a mythical live video feed they are said to provide, allowing parents to snoop freely on their child's daily activities without leaving the comfort of their offices. I'd heard of this magical place, where happy babies roam freely under the watchful eye of caring, CPR-certified teachers, and parents are strongly encouraged to visit their little puddings throughout the day, helping to both ease their yuppie guilt and remind their children that mom n' dad don't entirely drop off the face of the planet between the hours of 9 and 6pm.
Yes, the Children's Center is a beacon of good childcare - a shining pillar of responsible parenting. It also happens to have a two to three year waiting list. Hearing this, prospective mothers company-wide immediately begin to salivate with base, wanton need, much like all good Los Angelenos faced with an object of desire. A slot in the Children's Center is more exclusive than any movie premiere or sample sale, driving even the sanest women to immeasurable lengths.
At my company, it is very common for a newly pregnant woman to share the good news with two individuals - first Husband, then Children's Center Director. One woman, a friend of a friend, called the Center immediately after peeing on the stick, nabbing a spot on the holy list even before informing her husband of his impending little bundle. Yesterday I found myself cursing under my breath when I discovered that a new mother on the first floor of the building somehow had had the good fortune to have her new baby immediately placed in a coveted spot at the illustrious facility. "What the HELL?!? How did her kid get in there? She's not even six months! F___ that! Who the hell does she know?"
It's a ruthless, vicious game, one which I am not proud to play.
Pre-pregnancy, I wasn't too worried about childcare, mostly due to the fact that I was living vicariously though a good friend and co-worker of mine: she was due to give birth in February, and throughout her pregnancy, the Children's Center had repeatedly assured her that her child should be able to "get right in." Evidently, they like to take their three-month-olds at the beginning of each summer, which meant that her little one should simply waltz in and take his spot, like proverbial baby royalty.
Doesn't seem so tough to me, I thought, popping my prenatal and smearing on my organic sunblock. Ah, youthful optimism.
Turns out that my friend's baby came over six weeks early. When she called to inform the Children's Center, she was told that, unfortunately, they would no longer have a spot for him - he was now "too old" to gain a precious place in their June baby roster. This hideous declaration left my friend with a premature newborn, a fading maternity leave, and - gasp! - no back-up plan!
Hearing this horror story, my vague, lackadaisical childcare plan was blown to smithereens. This almost certainly left my August baby spurned, rejected, left to roam daycare-less through the mean streets of Burbank! I had (stupidly) harbored hopes of simply pummeling down the Children's Center's door, charming them with my passion and persistence, and shooting to the top of the list in no time. Clearly, this was not to be.
One by one, the bitter realities hit me: My mother-in-law cannot be relied upon as our sole source of baby support! We cannot remotely afford an in-home nanny! And THE CHILDREN'S CENTER IS RUN BY NAZIS!
I had to act fast. At four months pregnant, my frantic search began. I became a daycare fiend. Googling maniacally, poring over Craig's List and harassing mommy friends for referrals, all the while self-flagellating: How could I leave this to the last minute?? What kind of mommy am I? My baby must not be left in the Los Angeles lack-of-daycare cold, by damn! I must find an appropriately trustworthy human to care for my child!
But - dear god - where??
And so began my quest. Over its course, I have discovered something remarkable. In this brave new world, people do not flinch when you tell them you are looking for care eight months in advance, nor do they think you're remotely insane for putting your unborn fetus on a waiting list. If anything, I felt that - at 20 weeks pregnant - I'd waited too long. When a co-worker whose wife is due three weeks after me recently bragged about all the daycares they'd toured, about the multitude of waiting lists they were on, I had to quell the urge to rise up and claw his face.
At long last, my fanatical search culminated in two other local daycares, both with waiting lists equivalent to the evil Children's Center, and another lovely little place - a Montessori school with, amazingly, no list at all. I toured the latter, expecting to find a veritable baby ghetto, a slophouse not up to waiting list quality, an infant crackden of pestilence and disease not worthy of mommy-lust.
Instead, I was pleased to discover a clean, safe place full of happy, smiling, non-ghetto-dwelling babies. I would share the name, but other pregnant locals could be reading this, in which case: TOO BAD, SUCKAS! Every baby for itself!
Between this facility and four other small, in-home places I found, I am feeling pretty good about my options these days. My sense of organizational self-worth has been rejuvenated. LOOL will not be left to fend for him/herself in a rat-filled crackden. I can once again wear my Good Mom hat with pride.
Future Mommies, heed my advice and beware - it's a daycare jungle out there.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
The Name Game
As soon as we found out we were pregnant, I started a list of baby names for our consideration. The names sit next to our computer, neatly printed on the top page of a tiny notepad. Over the course of five months there have been numerous additions and an equal amount of scratched-out vetoes, but so far, nothing has emerged triumphant.
I never imagined that naming a child could prove so difficult. In my wiley younger days, long before I met my husband, I spent a lot of time daydreaming about baby names – far more time than a single person in her teens and early 20s should. At age 15, I had decided that my little boy’s name would be M____ (name preserved for posterity). I have no idea where I first heard it, but once I did, my search was done. To demonstrate my commitment to this name, I showed my husband a home movie of my best friend and me making jackasses of ourselves at age 16. At one point, amidst the high-pitched shrieks and boy-crazy babblings, I turn to the camera, wave and say “Hi M____! Hi, Future Baby!” However, when I first began dating my husband, I was dismayed to discover that his longtime friend already has a little boy named M____, which – curses! - now puts a damper on my plan. Beloved though it may be, it is difficult to justify using the same name as someone so close to us.
Over the past five months, this has resulted in a mad search for a good replacement boy’s name. I have a list of many, with a few top contenders, including a favorite girl’s name, one which we miraculously agree upon as sassy, smart, and unusual without being ridiculous. However, if LOOL is a boy, there’s a good chance he’ll leave the hospital with Baby Boy Draitser on his birth certificate.
This concept wouldn’t be foreign to my family – when I was born, I was dubbed “Baby Girl Thompson” by my indecisive parents. After a week, my father returned to the hospital and altered the certificate to read “Laura Lynn Thompson.” Several days later, after it was decided that I was most certainly NOT a Laura, it was once again amended, and I was forever after Paige Lynn. Could the same multi-name fate possibly lie in store for little LOOL?
Fortunately, we have lots of help in the naming department. For instance, since the day I announced my pregnancy, my father has taken it upon himself to suggest atrocious baby names at every possible opportunity. To list just a few, these include: Aristotle, Augustus, Longfellow, and - my favorite – Wendell. Last week he called to announce that he’d gotten a haircut that day, spotted a calendar on the wall containing a picture of a “very nice-looking” supermodel, and he liked her name – Brooklyn. I asked him 1) if he wanted his granddaughter to be a hooker? and 2) am I giving birth to a baby, or a borough? Also suggested were Brendon (highly creative, considering that it happens to be exactly one letter off from my brother’s name. Unsurprisingly, this observation didn’t seem to phase him), and Trevor, which (apologies in advance to all Trevors out there) is a name that, in my opinion, should only belong to those dwelling in trailer parks and prone to shooting beer cans off fences with BB guns. Newly aware of the monstrosities that my father is capable of conjuring in his head, I realize that it’s a damn miracle that my brothers and I emerged relatively unscathed as Jason, Brandon and Paige.
My mother-in-law also tossed out her share of suggestions toward the beginning of the pregnancy, insisting that Sasha would be an excellent name for a boy or a girl – a “good Russian name” to compliment the baby’s Russian heritage, because “the baby will be half Russian, after all!” I declined to point out that the baby will also be half English/German, but that I wasn’t thinking of calling it Cecil Freidrich. I told her the two names we were considering at the time, both of which were met with a distasteful gaze and “Oh well…I’ll just make up my own name for it.” Lovely.
As time has passed and my pregnancy has trucked happily along, we have wisely stopped sharing our baby names, and the list continues to grow and shrink with each passing week. Perhaps LOOL will stick – we can tell people it’s an old family name that means “better than your kid.”
I never imagined that naming a child could prove so difficult. In my wiley younger days, long before I met my husband, I spent a lot of time daydreaming about baby names – far more time than a single person in her teens and early 20s should. At age 15, I had decided that my little boy’s name would be M____ (name preserved for posterity). I have no idea where I first heard it, but once I did, my search was done. To demonstrate my commitment to this name, I showed my husband a home movie of my best friend and me making jackasses of ourselves at age 16. At one point, amidst the high-pitched shrieks and boy-crazy babblings, I turn to the camera, wave and say “Hi M____! Hi, Future Baby!” However, when I first began dating my husband, I was dismayed to discover that his longtime friend already has a little boy named M____, which – curses! - now puts a damper on my plan. Beloved though it may be, it is difficult to justify using the same name as someone so close to us.
Over the past five months, this has resulted in a mad search for a good replacement boy’s name. I have a list of many, with a few top contenders, including a favorite girl’s name, one which we miraculously agree upon as sassy, smart, and unusual without being ridiculous. However, if LOOL is a boy, there’s a good chance he’ll leave the hospital with Baby Boy Draitser on his birth certificate.
This concept wouldn’t be foreign to my family – when I was born, I was dubbed “Baby Girl Thompson” by my indecisive parents. After a week, my father returned to the hospital and altered the certificate to read “Laura Lynn Thompson.” Several days later, after it was decided that I was most certainly NOT a Laura, it was once again amended, and I was forever after Paige Lynn. Could the same multi-name fate possibly lie in store for little LOOL?
Fortunately, we have lots of help in the naming department. For instance, since the day I announced my pregnancy, my father has taken it upon himself to suggest atrocious baby names at every possible opportunity. To list just a few, these include: Aristotle, Augustus, Longfellow, and - my favorite – Wendell. Last week he called to announce that he’d gotten a haircut that day, spotted a calendar on the wall containing a picture of a “very nice-looking” supermodel, and he liked her name – Brooklyn. I asked him 1) if he wanted his granddaughter to be a hooker? and 2) am I giving birth to a baby, or a borough? Also suggested were Brendon (highly creative, considering that it happens to be exactly one letter off from my brother’s name. Unsurprisingly, this observation didn’t seem to phase him), and Trevor, which (apologies in advance to all Trevors out there) is a name that, in my opinion, should only belong to those dwelling in trailer parks and prone to shooting beer cans off fences with BB guns. Newly aware of the monstrosities that my father is capable of conjuring in his head, I realize that it’s a damn miracle that my brothers and I emerged relatively unscathed as Jason, Brandon and Paige.
My mother-in-law also tossed out her share of suggestions toward the beginning of the pregnancy, insisting that Sasha would be an excellent name for a boy or a girl – a “good Russian name” to compliment the baby’s Russian heritage, because “the baby will be half Russian, after all!” I declined to point out that the baby will also be half English/German, but that I wasn’t thinking of calling it Cecil Freidrich. I told her the two names we were considering at the time, both of which were met with a distasteful gaze and “Oh well…I’ll just make up my own name for it.” Lovely.
As time has passed and my pregnancy has trucked happily along, we have wisely stopped sharing our baby names, and the list continues to grow and shrink with each passing week. Perhaps LOOL will stick – we can tell people it’s an old family name that means “better than your kid.”
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Synopsis
Short and sweet update on recent life events:
- Had cavity filled while covered with THREE lead aprons. Was informed Dentist uses only digital x-rays, which reduces radiation by 90%. Dentist has risen in esteem from possible one-lead-apron-possessing half-brain lowlife to all-knowing magic man. LOOL is thankful; mouth is happy.
- Braved mall and purchased $100 worth of “maternity” clothing at Forever 21. Am now armed with slew of stylishly flowy, belly-accomodating tops. Thought briefly that Forever 21 should really establish proper maternity department, then realized target demographic. Should not encourage wanton adolescent breeding, a la Jamie Lynn Spears.
- Still eating in saintly, organic-veggie-munching manner. Anticipate brief respite for indulgence in delicious white chocolate chicks n' ducks sent by mother in Easter basket. Headless bird gnawing in near future.
- Still have not opened gender-possessing slip of paper. Perhaps 80% sure of sex, but not ready to relinquish remaining 20% of mystery and intrigue. Still calling baby “it.”
- Turning 30 next week. Growing better with age, much like fine cheese.
- Had cavity filled while covered with THREE lead aprons. Was informed Dentist uses only digital x-rays, which reduces radiation by 90%. Dentist has risen in esteem from possible one-lead-apron-possessing half-brain lowlife to all-knowing magic man. LOOL is thankful; mouth is happy.
- Braved mall and purchased $100 worth of “maternity” clothing at Forever 21. Am now armed with slew of stylishly flowy, belly-accomodating tops. Thought briefly that Forever 21 should really establish proper maternity department, then realized target demographic. Should not encourage wanton adolescent breeding, a la Jamie Lynn Spears.
- Still eating in saintly, organic-veggie-munching manner. Anticipate brief respite for indulgence in delicious white chocolate chicks n' ducks sent by mother in Easter basket. Headless bird gnawing in near future.
- Still have not opened gender-possessing slip of paper. Perhaps 80% sure of sex, but not ready to relinquish remaining 20% of mystery and intrigue. Still calling baby “it.”
- Turning 30 next week. Growing better with age, much like fine cheese.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
To Open or Not to Open
On Wednesday, I had my big 20-week ultrasound. It was a detailed anatomy scan of the baby's body - we would see the chambers of the heart, the spine, the arms and legs, and of course, that beautiful little face, looking more human than ever. I'd never been more excited for anything in my life. After all, this would be the last chance to see LOOL ("Love of Our Lives" - an appropriate nickname, since my husband and I rarely call each other anything besides LOML) before its birthday.
When we first got pregnant, we decided that we didn't want to know the sex, that we wanted to be surprised. This announcement elicited various responses from friends and family, ranging from incredulity to awed appreciation of our patience to downright frustration.
The curious types insisted that the surprise would be just as great at five months in the doctor's office as it would on the birthday. Perhaps this is true, but frankly, after endless hours of huffing, puffing, godawful pain and general labor-induced delirium, I'd say that finding out the sex of my child is a worthy reward. Driving to UCLA for my five-month midwife appointment can't exactly compare, even with the worst traffic.
Others thought it very inconvenient, and wondered aloud how I could possibly feel prepared without knowing the sex - How to decorate the nursery? What color onesies to buy? How fortunate that red, yellow and green are my favorite colors.
Several friends suggested that I might feel more connected to the baby if I were to find out. Though this is doubtlessly true for some, this is my baby - I sing to it, talk to it, read to it. I can't imagine feeling more connected to it until the moment I hold him or her in my arms.
Despite our steadfast decision to choose ignorance, as the weeks crept by, we found ourselves growing increasingly curious. What was this little person that I'd been talking to for weeks? Was LOOL a he or she? Even my husband, always the more resolute party in this decision, was waffling. On the morning of the ultrasound, I awoke to find him sitting in the living room, pondering pink or blue.
We decided to find a happy medium - we would look at the ultrasound, but we wouldn't allow the tech to tell us what the baby was. That way, we'd either have to be smart enough to figure it out on our own, or we'd live in blissful ignorance for the duration of the pregnancy. When we announced this decision to the ultrasound technician, she laughed. "I've never heard that one before!"
I lay back, waiting eagerly for her to visit "the area." Shapes blurred in and out of focus on the screen in front of us. That could be an elbow...or a knee...or?? Suddenly, we heard, "Okay - I just looked. I know what you're having."
Huh? We hadn't seen anything that was remotely discernible as genitalia. At that moment, I realized that I had assumed we'd know exactly what LOOL was immediately, that there would be no doubt once we left this appointment. Not so.
"Perhaps we should revisit that area," I suggested, unable to stop myself. She complied, and once again we were staring at a maze of fuzzy body parts. Nope.
"Oh well," I said, discomfited. "That's that - guess we'll just be surprised."
"Here - let's try this." Before I knew it, she had zoomed in. The area in question was enlarged before us, yet...still nothing.
"There's one leg, and here's another..." We cocked our heads, staring blankly at the screen. Was there something visible between those skinny legs? Or...not?
"How about I write it down for you?" Err...sure! Why not?
And that is how my husband and I ended up wandering out of the hospital carrying our baby's sex in our pocket. A folded, taped-up piece of green scratch paper holds the big secret. It's been three days, and we haven't looked.
Are we masochists? Possibly. Is this torture? Definitely.
When we first got pregnant, we decided that we didn't want to know the sex, that we wanted to be surprised. This announcement elicited various responses from friends and family, ranging from incredulity to awed appreciation of our patience to downright frustration.
The curious types insisted that the surprise would be just as great at five months in the doctor's office as it would on the birthday. Perhaps this is true, but frankly, after endless hours of huffing, puffing, godawful pain and general labor-induced delirium, I'd say that finding out the sex of my child is a worthy reward. Driving to UCLA for my five-month midwife appointment can't exactly compare, even with the worst traffic.
Others thought it very inconvenient, and wondered aloud how I could possibly feel prepared without knowing the sex - How to decorate the nursery? What color onesies to buy? How fortunate that red, yellow and green are my favorite colors.
Several friends suggested that I might feel more connected to the baby if I were to find out. Though this is doubtlessly true for some, this is my baby - I sing to it, talk to it, read to it. I can't imagine feeling more connected to it until the moment I hold him or her in my arms.
Despite our steadfast decision to choose ignorance, as the weeks crept by, we found ourselves growing increasingly curious. What was this little person that I'd been talking to for weeks? Was LOOL a he or she? Even my husband, always the more resolute party in this decision, was waffling. On the morning of the ultrasound, I awoke to find him sitting in the living room, pondering pink or blue.
We decided to find a happy medium - we would look at the ultrasound, but we wouldn't allow the tech to tell us what the baby was. That way, we'd either have to be smart enough to figure it out on our own, or we'd live in blissful ignorance for the duration of the pregnancy. When we announced this decision to the ultrasound technician, she laughed. "I've never heard that one before!"
I lay back, waiting eagerly for her to visit "the area." Shapes blurred in and out of focus on the screen in front of us. That could be an elbow...or a knee...or?? Suddenly, we heard, "Okay - I just looked. I know what you're having."
Huh? We hadn't seen anything that was remotely discernible as genitalia. At that moment, I realized that I had assumed we'd know exactly what LOOL was immediately, that there would be no doubt once we left this appointment. Not so.
"Perhaps we should revisit that area," I suggested, unable to stop myself. She complied, and once again we were staring at a maze of fuzzy body parts. Nope.
"Oh well," I said, discomfited. "That's that - guess we'll just be surprised."
"Here - let's try this." Before I knew it, she had zoomed in. The area in question was enlarged before us, yet...still nothing.
"There's one leg, and here's another..." We cocked our heads, staring blankly at the screen. Was there something visible between those skinny legs? Or...not?
"How about I write it down for you?" Err...sure! Why not?
And that is how my husband and I ended up wandering out of the hospital carrying our baby's sex in our pocket. A folded, taped-up piece of green scratch paper holds the big secret. It's been three days, and we haven't looked.
Are we masochists? Possibly. Is this torture? Definitely.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Fantastic Elastic
Today I checked my calendar, and realized that I have approximately three months and three weeks left before my maternity leave begins. Mind you, I enjoy my job, and my calendar-checking was not to count the days until I can get the hell out and stay at home for five blissful months of babydom. No, I have but one pressing concern: what the hell do I wear?
Over the past few years of corporate life, I’ve accumulated a decent collection of work-wear. Never a proficient shopper, I’ve managed to assemble an assortment of pencil skirts, cardigans and button-downs that have taken me through many a workweek with at least some modicum of fashion sense. However, over the past couple of weeks in my newly expanding state, I have realized that - much to my dismay - I am no longer capable of simply trotting out all my old stand-bys.
The day starts well enough: In the small-bellied mornings, I’ll slip on, say, my classic black Banana Republic number with no problem and strut into the office feeling triumphant. Three hours, one breakfast, two glasses of water, a mid-morning snack and one crowded uterus later, I find myself gasping for breath at my cubicle, wriggling under the desk to loosen the zipper, and hoping that my shirt is long enough so that my now-exposed thong doesn’t poke out. In short: not attractive. Fortunately, my boss has yet to wander by and witness my display of round-tummied, bloat-freeing acrobatics. So far, anyway.
Yesterday, I finally bit the bullet and headed to my local Old Navy (good frugal mommy) to inspect their maternity department. Upon arriving, I was dismayed to discover from the perky salesgirl that the only Old Navy with a maternity section is in Santa Monica (in other words, not my ‘hood). Craptastic! Not to be discouraged, I quickly rounded up a slew of normal-people clothes that looked like they’d be forgiving to a growing stomach, and headed to the dressing room.
There, under harsh fluorescents and atop frigid concrete, I was confronted by the most GODAWFUL array of ill-fitting potato sack-esque cotton that I have ever had the displeasure of wriggling into. There were tent-like babydolls, under which I could have hidden an entire set of Encyclopedia Brittanica in addition to my abdomen, boxy peasant tops ideally suited for some kind of strung-out, homeless Janice Joplin costume, and frighteningly low-cut slip dresses from which my now-ginormous (and disturbingly veiny) boobs protruded, threatening to leap out and smack someone. With each new monstrosity, I became increasingly convinced of my righteousness in avoiding maternity wear altogether (and, in the future, all of Old Navy’s normal clothes as well). I left the store beaten down by fashion - yet toting a new, fabulously unnecessary ten-dollar handbag.
Lesson: maternity clothing is foul, and I am beginning to believe that the entire industry exists merely to take advantage of women when they are feeling their most susceptible – bloated, hormonal, and vaguely terrified of impending responsibility. So far, I have found only one exception to this rule, a miraculous piece of clothing handed-down from my friend Jamie (bless her sweet baby-havin’ little self): the BELLA BAND,
a tube of spandex whose simple appearance belies its genius. I wriggle into it in the morning, fold it in two, and – ta dah! – my sleekest pair of previously-unbuttonable work pants fit! My pencils skirts are once again wearable – no wriggling necessary! Look at all those happy pregnant women in the picture - they are eating, drinking, and breathing freely in all their preggers, pants-wearing glory. Their co-workers have not seen their thongs. Brilliant!
I’ll reattempt the maternity shopping at some point, but until then, elastic is my friend.
Over the past few years of corporate life, I’ve accumulated a decent collection of work-wear. Never a proficient shopper, I’ve managed to assemble an assortment of pencil skirts, cardigans and button-downs that have taken me through many a workweek with at least some modicum of fashion sense. However, over the past couple of weeks in my newly expanding state, I have realized that - much to my dismay - I am no longer capable of simply trotting out all my old stand-bys.
The day starts well enough: In the small-bellied mornings, I’ll slip on, say, my classic black Banana Republic number with no problem and strut into the office feeling triumphant. Three hours, one breakfast, two glasses of water, a mid-morning snack and one crowded uterus later, I find myself gasping for breath at my cubicle, wriggling under the desk to loosen the zipper, and hoping that my shirt is long enough so that my now-exposed thong doesn’t poke out. In short: not attractive. Fortunately, my boss has yet to wander by and witness my display of round-tummied, bloat-freeing acrobatics. So far, anyway.
Yesterday, I finally bit the bullet and headed to my local Old Navy (good frugal mommy) to inspect their maternity department. Upon arriving, I was dismayed to discover from the perky salesgirl that the only Old Navy with a maternity section is in Santa Monica (in other words, not my ‘hood). Craptastic! Not to be discouraged, I quickly rounded up a slew of normal-people clothes that looked like they’d be forgiving to a growing stomach, and headed to the dressing room.
There, under harsh fluorescents and atop frigid concrete, I was confronted by the most GODAWFUL array of ill-fitting potato sack-esque cotton that I have ever had the displeasure of wriggling into. There were tent-like babydolls, under which I could have hidden an entire set of Encyclopedia Brittanica in addition to my abdomen, boxy peasant tops ideally suited for some kind of strung-out, homeless Janice Joplin costume, and frighteningly low-cut slip dresses from which my now-ginormous (and disturbingly veiny) boobs protruded, threatening to leap out and smack someone. With each new monstrosity, I became increasingly convinced of my righteousness in avoiding maternity wear altogether (and, in the future, all of Old Navy’s normal clothes as well). I left the store beaten down by fashion - yet toting a new, fabulously unnecessary ten-dollar handbag.
Lesson: maternity clothing is foul, and I am beginning to believe that the entire industry exists merely to take advantage of women when they are feeling their most susceptible – bloated, hormonal, and vaguely terrified of impending responsibility. So far, I have found only one exception to this rule, a miraculous piece of clothing handed-down from my friend Jamie (bless her sweet baby-havin’ little self): the BELLA BAND,
a tube of spandex whose simple appearance belies its genius. I wriggle into it in the morning, fold it in two, and – ta dah! – my sleekest pair of previously-unbuttonable work pants fit! My pencils skirts are once again wearable – no wriggling necessary! Look at all those happy pregnant women in the picture - they are eating, drinking, and breathing freely in all their preggers, pants-wearing glory. Their co-workers have not seen their thongs. Brilliant!I’ll reattempt the maternity shopping at some point, but until then, elastic is my friend.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)