Let's Discuss

I know. I should post more but other than feeling like a beached whale with digestive problems I really don't have a whole lot going on preggo-wise. Basically, I will now complain. What? I haven't been complaining ENOUGH for your liking?!? Well this is you're LUCKY FUCKIN' DAY. As always these complaints are couched in the fact that they're totally first world problems and not real complaints; I couldn't be happier to be pregnant. 

Dear Paige Denim: I understand that you're considered the best of the best. I love that I found some of your jeans on Zulily at a not-ridiculous price and they are indeed quite comfy. However, may we discuss for a moment the tag at the belly seam? Hey, I get it - you want to be different and put that tag somewhere else. Like maybe I want to show off the size of my jeans and not have to show my butt crack? Or maybe one has SO MANY jeans that they have to check who exactly made these overpriced legs of denim, let's make it easy for to whip out that tag and show it off. And when you're a non-pregnant size 26 (not never ever will be me) that's cute. Oh excuse my teeny waist and rock hard abs, while I look to see who made my jeans. Oh look! It's Paige! See how adorable this insignificant pocket is next to my tag? That's just in case I want to melt my lipstick by smooshing it against my non-existent love handle. 

*Wow. That was a hell of a tangent - apologies y'all* 

My point here is - a tag on a belly seam in MATERNITY jeans is fucking dumb. We're already itchy - we're like ALL GET OUT itchy. Seams in the maternity jeans already toe the line of comfort - too high, too low - so please 'splain to me the idea of adding them to maternity jeans. 

Don't worry; I'll wait. 

Did anyone else splurge on maternity jeans and find them lacking? I mean I am all for my sassy Joe's Jeans non-preggo but dropping $200 on jeans I will just wear for a few months seems silly. Now if someone wants to purchase some for me then please by all means shop away. Maybe it's being of "Advanced Maternal Age" that makes me all cranky about it but as much as I would love to drop a cool $100 on some cardigan The Goop says is all the pregnancy rage I think getting a pedicure and lunch with a friend is a much better use of money. 

Secondly can we just discuss this? 

Oh Zulily. Zulily, Zulily, Zulily. Where do I begin? First I know many a breastfeeding mom and never have they said to me, "You know what I love to do? Put on my makeup, a jazzy necklace, sparkly earrings and a ball gown; find the closest Laundr-O-Mat and whip out my boob to feed my baby." Because CLEARLY that's what this photo is implying. I implore nay BEG those of you who look at this and think "well that's my TUESDAY!" to please call me. I think we need to discuss what the hell you are doing with your day and how I can become part of that club. 



This photo linked to a sale on maternity lingerie which is personally not my thing but I can absolutely see how women out there feel sexier thanks to the big boobs and hormonal fluctuations. I see no issue with maternity lingerie per se however I do think this picture sets women up for a completely unrealistic sense of post-natal life. And now after Googling it I see that  unrealistic expectation via media is clearly par for the course (DUH). Would you all remind me to take a picture of myself in February so we can be a bit more realistic than this utter nonsense? Because you know I will forget. And you know I am not putting on a fucking ball gown especially if they're adding some tags to the middle. 

Things Better Left Unsaid

This week in YOUR BABY IS GOING TO DIE NEWS. No fewer than three people have told me horror stories about someone they know (friend-of-a-friend, neighbor, coworker) losing their unborn child at 5 months, 7 months, 39 weeks. With the really awesome clarification of "No one knows why!" "They don't know what happened." 

Wow. Thanks. 

The best part was every single time said storyteller would say "I shouldn't be telling you this" and then continued to horrify me with stories. 

Friends, countrymen, asshats - please don't tell horror stories to first-time pregos. We are all too aware that shit happens, complications arise and that life can really be a fucking dick sometimes. But hearing it and instinctively going to the "Please please please don't let that happen to me" place in your mind IS NOT GOOD FOR THE BABY. Or the Mom. Or the Husband/Partner that has to talk to his significant other off the ledge of I AM GOING TO KILL OUR BABY.

We're bombarded with don't eat bacon! don't drink wine! don't eat deli meat! don't sleep on your back! And a whole host of other don'ts that are often presented as YOU WILL HAVE A BROKEN BABY IF YOU DO THIS. Look, none of us wants a broken baby or a sick baby or a baby with hooves - unless the father is a centaur. And trust me when I tell you that simple things like rolling over on your stomach in the middle of the night, an errant piece of bleu cheese, the meat sweats all trigger the ohmygod-will-my-baby-grow-up-to-be-miley-cyrus-now reaction. And I think we can all agree - no one wants to feel that way. So thank you for keeping your dead baby stories to yourself.

And pass the bacon... that shit is delicious. 

No Shame

One of the greatest things about being pregnant is not really giving a flying fuck about anything anymore. PB&J? Bring me all the carbs! Two appetizers? Well DON'T MIND IF I DO! Oh sorry, I farted. YES IT WAS ME. But the best part about being a first-time expecto is hearing "oh yeah, girl that's totally normal" from every former-pregnant-now-mom-official woman you know. 

"Girl I got restless leg syndrome."
"My poop changed color and consistency!" 
"I have never made more snot in my life than I do now." 
"I can't look at chicken." 
"The produce section of the grocery store freaks me out."  

I love the camaraderie that comes with shared experience - especially among us girls. Pregnancy seems to be the great equalizer - (except for those freaks who never have anything bad happen to them; they're not real and should be banned from society brandished as freaks.) boob pain, sex dreams, swollen feet, varicose veins, overflowing sinuses, constipation, all-day puking, nausea, extreme fatigue - most of us get some thing or many things. Just today at a local event, I spoke with a friend who's roughly 8 weeks pregnant and we lamented about random sneezing. Her's? A daily double sneeze that shakes walls. Mine? A fearsome triple that wakes the dead. Neither of us have colds or allergies - we just sneeze. That shit's weird. Also weird? The nosebleeds. Like the huge nosebleed I got at my birthday dinner. There I am sitting in a gorgeous restaurant with all my non-pregnant skinny well-groomed friends and after those three sneezes I damn near had a CSI moment at the table. Thankfully, I stocked up on tissues and avoided an all out CLEAN UP AT TABLE 4 moment. 

And here during all this camaraderie is when I begin to notice the haters, the dissenters - the women who point and judge at every single decision made. For instance, we have good friends that scoff at us for not finding out the sex and say shit like: "Hope you're prepared for all the ugly yellow and green shit you're going to get." 

Wow. Thanks guys! First off, there are more than 4 colors in the world. Secondly, who the hell says girls can't wear blue? I love blue. Jewel tone blue, turquoise, Carolina blue (that's a thing here), light blue etc.  I love most shades of pink - dark fuschia, a light coral and deep mauve. Yes those are all pinks. SHUT UP IT'S MY BLOG.  But mostly there's a palette of colors that is just now becoming popular for a gender neutral room - grays, oranges, turquoise(s), reds, beiges, etc. And while I am no Martha Stewart I certainly hope that I can come up with something less cliche than pink and blue. Fuck it, maybe I'll emo the whole thing with white, black and giant splashes of red - reminiscent of my nosebleeds. 

Granted, colors make up a small part of the judgement. Names, diet, exercise (choice of, amount of), and husband participation have become fodder for whispers and dinner table conversation. And while it's hard for me to cry - CAN'T WE JUST ALL GET ALONG? I feel the need to. This is the weirdest most amazing thing our bodies do and yeah sometimes it sucks (HI THREE AM... AGAIN) but for the most part? It's kinda fucking amazing. And there's no way I can tell someone else how to make the weird and the painful tolerable or manageable. If Spaghetti-Os is the only thing that you can eat without throwing up then get to Costco. If a daily 45 min on an elliptical machine keeps you from throwing a gallon of milk at your husband, then by all means pedal away. Should you eat more than just Spaghetti Os? Yep. Should you maybe throw a yoga class in with that elliptical routine? Absolutely as my hips hurt just thinking about it. But I eat Reese's Peanut Butter Puffs every morning because they're fucking delicious and have fewer nutritional elements than my sofa cushions. I am pretty sure I didn't eat a single non-fried thing last Friday. Hmmm maybe the salad the fried Asian shrimp was served on? That counts right?? 

Look, I can't say I don't judge or make comments. It hurts when I hear people complain about being pregnant when I know so many who are draining bank accounts and sanity in order to get the chance. Or when I read that some woman ran a half-marathon at 17 weeks pregnant - in 2:32 no less! (Bitch. Amazing Bitch but Bitch nonetheless) But let's take a second and revel in the fact that men can't do this and doctors can guess how it's done but they still don't have 1/3 of the answers; this shit is crazyamazinginsanelunacy - and the kid isn't even here yet. 

Soapbox closed. 

Stupid Shit

This last week has been allll the stupid.  As in me - I AM ALL STUPID. And the first thing to go? My superior knowledge of the English language. Look, I pride myself on knowing a homonym and recognizing a run-on sentence. Yes, I correct spelling in an IM. And sometimes texts. 

Looking like you speak English on digital paper is just as important as actually speaking English so take your YOLO and shove it. 

Monday:
I said, "We've spinned our wheels on this for 2 weeks." 
Spinned. GUYS I SAID SPINNED. My co-worker looked at me as if I sprouted a horn and just said...wha??? 

Tuesday: 
"You know like the circles? In the trees? When you cut a tree open and it shows the age?" 
Co-worker: "You mean the tree rings?" 

Note: I just had to ask him again because I FORGOT the earlier conversation.

Wednesday: Texting a good friend in San Francisco. 
"Well if you wander over hear let us know!" 

Four Hours Later: 
"Hear MiT?! REALLY?! HERE. If you wander over HERE. GOD" 

Yep. Here.

Thursday: 
Me: "You're totally invaluable."
Co-worker: "You mean...valuable?"
Me: "No...like I can't live without you!"
Co-worker: "So...indispensable?"
Me: "SHUT UP I USED TO KNOW THINGS." 

Friday:  Me: "Oh and what about those things?" points to bowls,tongs and general serving utensils
Coworker: "The disposable catering stuff?"
Me: "No! The things...with the serving...over there." clearly pointing again to bowls, tongs and general serving utensils. 
Coworker: "You mean the bowls?"
Sigh. 

Things I Can No Longer Do! Week 15

I worked out for the first time this past weekend taking a Dance Fusion class that's kinda like Zumba without the trademark and the obligatory Betto payment. Seriously y'all Zumba's a bit of a racket but it's fun so I will allow it. 

After being hit by a mack truck of exhaustion it felt fantastic to shake my pregnant groove thang for 45 minutes and work up a good sweat. It's still a bit of a shock to look at myself in the mirror and think girl lay off the carbs or tie those suckers down before you wind up with two black eyes. The most astounding part of the entire hour though wasn't my expanding waistline or my ginormous boobage oh no ma'am; the most astounding part is how much my ability to do shit has gone to shit. 

Exhibit A: 
Side step with an under knee clap. Yes it's Jazzercise-y - whatever I am moving. 

See that sassy little arrow telling you where to clap? Fuck you sassy arrow because the only thing I get to is clapping my ACTUAL KNEE. That's right because suddenly I can't get under either knee to clap or wave or do shit because apparently my knees have a new boundary o' baby. 






Exhibit B: Touching the floor. Yeah you read that right! Touching the floor with straight knees aka forward fold. 

No I never looked like that you get the idea.
 Shut up. 

Now I rocked some yoga in the past couple years mastering all sorts of weird ass moves and OM-ing my way to Zen for 90 minutes. And as un-competitive you're supposed to be in yoga, I loved looking over and seeing that I was one of the few that could hit a forward fold. 

When the teacher asked us to bend our knees, put our hands on the floor and stand up I thought - yeah this fat girl can totally do that - whaaaaat!!! I stood up and my hands popped up off the floor like springs. Surely, I was simply not paying attention and redid the move. Nope.  It's like getting out an old favorite book and someone changed the ending without your consent. It's Eminem NEVER losing himself in the moment. It's like Beyoncé with no Oncé.  OK so that really doesn't mean anything but you get what I am saying. I just hung there all fallen over, hands on my shins thinking shit I really should have shaved and what the hell just happened here?! Why are my hamstrings broken!? I am growing a baby in my uterus not my hamstrings. 

The lesson? The ENTIRE BODY gets all involved with the uterus shenanigans. Not just the boobs to feed the mini-raptor or lady bits for the nurturing, ALL THE PARTS. (credit: AllieBrosh)
Can't wait to find out what else breaks during the upcoming months as I am sure this will become a series rather than a single post. Anyone want to start placing bets on what goes next?