Zen and Spaghetti

Each week in my pre-natal yoga class, we have to go around and introduce ourselves at the beginning and say how far along we are and how we are feeling. "Hi, I'm June, I am 30 weeks. Yay. I am doing great and so excited about the miracle growing in my belly." I am so not sitting next to June next class. "Hi, I'm Stacy, I'm 19 weeks along. I'm feeling so much better now that I don't feel like I have to hurl every five minutes, but my back hurts, I can't figure out how to bend over and get back up again in one motion and my body doesn't seem to realize that humans should eat full three meals a day, not five. Plus tons of ice cream when I am lactose intolerant."

The teacher ignored the rest of my comments, but gleefully informed me that I am almost halfway along. AHHHHHHH! I've been pretty unfazed by all of this so far, but realizing this is almost halfway over already was a little daunting. That was so not cool to remind me of that when I am at yoga to try and I don't know, relax.

I finally did relax toward the end of the class, especially when it came time for my favorite part, which is the meditation. We lay down on blankets with our head on a bolster and a pillow between our knees. The lights are dim, soothing Buddha music plays - it's quite nice. The teacher gives us these affirmations to put fear aside of our birth, etc. It's a little creepy, but I still feel bad that I ignore these affirmations. Why? Because while I should be meditating, calming my mind and thinking about welcoming my baby, all I can can think about is food. What am I going to eat for my second dinner tonight? Ooooh, what if I add chives to my pasta sauce next time I make it? Somewhere in the background is a calming voice saying "...something, something, please your baby..." and all I hear is "cheese and gravy." I don't even eat gravy. Then the lights go back on, and I wonder how the meditation part is over so quickly.

Boobsicles

When I got out of bed the Saturday before last, my husband looked at me and exclaimed, "you totally grew overnight." It was truly the weirdest thing. We were going hiking that day, and I stubbornly dressed in my non-maternity hiking uniform of tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt with a zipped up hoodie sweatshirt over it. As we started out on the hiking trail, I was a little off balance at first because of the sudden extra weight from the belly explosion. My husband informed me that I looked like I was smuggling a turkey under my hoodie. Laughing certainly threw off my balance even more...

To add to the fun, I wasn't wearing a jacket since the forecast called for such nice weather that day. Well at 9am it was still quite chilly and my boobs became completely frozen. I read about the possibility of increased sensitivity in that region, but seriously people. Nobody told me my boobs would become a meat locker and feel like they were going to fall off. I've lived in Detroit, NYC and Chicago and vacationed in Iceland in the middle of winter - I have a concept of cold. This, however, was unlike anything I've ever experienced. So how did I handle this? Why rub my boobs of course. That was all well and good until a family of five came hiking on by. I must have looked like such a class act, at best. Or a total perv.

Mom Pants

During a layover at JFK airport en route to Tel Aviv on a business trip, I headed into Brooklyn for a few hours and visited my favorite store in the city. I've known the owner for years and love her for her for her fantastic eclectic fashion sense and brutal honesty. When she saw me in my maternity jeans, she quickly pronounced that I looked like a suburban housewife and should not wear maternity jeans in public. No disrespect to my suburban housewife brethren, but I panicked. I immediately thought of Mom pants. You know, the high hip hugger pants that go over the woman's belly and stop shortly under her chest, eliminating the illusion that she might have a torso? These trousers usually involve pleats, a skinny belt and a Land's End-style shirt tucked into them. So the bottom line is that I can't get lazy with my fashion creativity because most conventional maternity clothes are completely unflattering and downright suck. Then I could end up on a downward spiral toward Mom pants. NOOOOOOO! I know my low-rise cargo pants may not be age appropriate or fashion forward forever, but Mom pants aren't even a slippery slope. Then I may as well be wearing a hand-knit cat sweater with three dimensional whiskers and duck boots. Then the red lipstick smeared way above the lip line won't be far off at that point. So I gratefully headed the advice that maternity jeans are a fashion don’t for me and left them in Brooklyn. No Mom pants. Ever.