Taboo

taboo adjective: proscribed by society as improper or unacceptable

Apparently, being pregnant is in fact taboo.  I'm not sure from where this so called society thinks it originated, but I am starting to think we are not too far past the barefoot and pregnant mentality.  About a million things have pissed me off this week in regards to pregnancy, none of which have anything to do with my growing waste size or my raging hormones. 

I now understand why shopping for maternity clothes triggered a fit of tears EVERY time.  Because only Heidi Klum understands and you can only buy her line of clothing in bits and pieces at random stores.  To begin with, the quality of maternity clothes, specifically pants, is ridiculous unless you spend $100+ on pants you can only wear for about 6 months.  Yes, my ass is wider, but that doesn't mean I don't notice that the pockets on my jeans are lopsided and oddly spaced.  Having one pocket on my thigh rather than on my other cheek just isn't working for me.  In fact, doesn't this draw more attention to my posterior?

I also don't understand why everything has to make me look like I myself am the child.  Is it necessary that all my tops tie in the back?  I'm pretty sure my ginormous belly will hold everything in place.  And on the topic of the ginormous belly, it makes no sense that the majority of tops have horizontal stripes, which according to all the fashion magazines, only makes you look wider.  It's like the think tank on this one sat down and said, "Yes, let's take hormonal women who already feel fat and gross and let's give them fashion disasters that make them look even bigger and squattier!"  It's a wonder we don't have an epidemic of pregnant suicides on our hands. 

All of this is assuming you can even find the maternity clothes at any given store.  Apparently, they think pregnant women are a minority.  I'll give props to Target.  Their tiny little section is at least with the other women's clothes.  At Kohl's, I have walked that store 50 times and finally decided I had been misinformed and that they did not carry maternity.  By accident this week I stumbled upon their two racks in the most logical place...against the wall, in a corner, between the bras and the robes.  This is on the opposite side of the store from women's clothing and there is not sign announcing maternity.  You have to recognize a brand name or notice the lovely elastic belly band waste that has been neatly tucked in to conceal it from sight.  Are we really that repulsive?  At Burlington, I again came across their section my mistake.  It is located in the farthest corner from the door between the strollers and the toys.  Not even in the clothing section.  At Macy's it's BEHIND customer service, by the service door and they didn't even have a light above the section.  It is no wonder we are all stuffing ourselves into our pre-pregnancy clothes or ill fitting larger sizes that may reveal a peak at the belly or a boob from time to time. 

Thank God for my mother, who suggested we skip maternity all together and opt for cute sweater dresses to get me through the winter.

So if one day you pass me and see a little more of me than you would like, don't judge... blame the department stores. 

The Ghosts of Christmas Past

Every year the process of getting and decorating our Christmas tree turns into some crazy situations.  The first year did not start us off on the right track thanks to my overactive imagination.  Although I am far from warm and fuzzy, I had allowed my mind to drifts off into a Cleaver-ish scenario of silver bells and holly, mistletoe and magic. Rocky would rush home, sharing my excitement over buying our first married tree. We would examine every tree on the Home Depot lot until we found the perfect one (because Home Depot is the picture of romance). Once home, my adoring husband would turn on Christmas carols and start a fire while I poured our glasses of wine. We would then enjoy an evening of stringing lights and adorning our perfect tree, commenting on how wonderful our first married Christmas was turning out.

I have no idea where this image came from. I blame too many Fa la la la Lifetime movies and my evening was far from a dream.  My husband did rush home, but not in the holiday spirit...in the fantasy football spirit.  The Jets were playing the Bills. As he plopped down on the sofa I watched my daydream do a tale spin into the trash can. After I stormed off into the laundry room to furiously sort clothes he appeared in the doorway, having had his memory jogged by my little tantrum and we headed off to Home Depot.  Actually getting the tree went pretty smooth and I had renewed hope for the evening.  Once home I began unpacking boxes and boxes of lights and ornaments and stockings and trim, beginning to feel like my holiday fantasy might have dragged it's smoking carcass from the trash in my very own Christmas miracle.

Wrong again.  He paused the football game long enough to help me string lights and before I could even plug them in, he was back on the sofa with the remote, glued to the game.  I could see where this was going so I drop kicked my Christmas miracle back into the garbage and begin throwing all the decorations, which I have just unpacked, back into the boxes. Now, it's important to mention that at this point I knew I was being irrational and overreacting, but I didn't care.  Furious, I stomp out of the room yelling, "I am not decorating our first married tree BY MYSELF! I guess we will just have lights this year. I would hate for our FIRST CHRISTMAS to get in the way of watching the FOOTBALL GAME!"  I eventually calmed down and after convincing my husband he did not marry a crackpot, I got a happy ending to this holiday drama.   The next evening Rocky came home and pulled out the decorations. He then poured two large glasses of wine, handed me one, and then put on Christmas carols.  By the end of the evening we have a beautiful tree, a happy buzz, and a less-than-perfect but wonderful memory.

Our second Christmas together was comical.  Rocky, being the smart guy that he is, decided to avoid any holiday drama.  He coordinated with me ahead of time and we planned to get our tree on a non-football night.  We got the tree and made it home where I poured wine while Rocky started a fire.  It was quickly turning into my Lifetime Movie and I was secretly pleased.  While in the office dragging the decorations out of the closet, we were interrupted by the ear-piercing sound of the smoke alarm.  We raced into the living room and discovered smoke billowing out of the fire place.  The dog was frantic as I hacked and coughed my way through the house opening windows and doors while Rocky tried to figure out how to extinguish the fire.  We learned a little lesson about chimney sweeps that Christmas, but still managed to get everything decorated.

The third time was bound to be a charm.  We planned to get the tree early Sunday morning, agreed that we would wait until later in the evening to decorate so that Rocky could watch the football game, and we decided to fore go a fire.  Sunday morning we loaded up and headed out to get the tree, stopping at our favorite kolache shop on the way.  We quickly found the perfect tree, paid for it, and carried it to the car where we we discovered that this tree (like me) seems to be fatter than in previous years because it would not fit in the trunk.  No problem.  We just let it stick out and drove home with the trunk open.  On the way home I realized we didn't have them cut the bottom off the trunk and I informed Rocky he would have to trim it when we got home so the tree would be able to absorb water and live longer.  He reminded me that we only have a hand saw, which seemed like a reasonable tool to me, but he felt differently and tried to convince me the trees had been cut recently and it didn't need a trim.  I pouted the remainder of the trip home, convinced our tree would die within the week.  Hormones.     

We finally made it home and started to unload the tree when I noticed a tag on the bottom branch.  "Grown in Oregon!" I read.  "How recently could they have been cut if they were grown in OREGON?!"  At this point, my poor husband sees the crazy coming out and just silently continues to work at getting the tree out of the trunk.  He carried it to the backyard and then went to the shed to retrieve the hand saw.  About this time I am starting to see crazy myself and feel bad, but I really wanted the base cut so I offered to help hold the tree in a peace making effort.  The most obvious way seemed to be to straddle it while he cut so I climbed on.  He put all his effort into sawing the biggest trunk I have ever seen on a Christmas tree and I leaned over to watch and offer encouragement (I'm sure he loved that).  About halfway through the trunk, the saw got stuck.  He pulled and pulled and I'm watching closely to see what happens when suddenly the saw came out and nailed me right between the eyes.  I see stars.  We both sat stunned for a minute.  He felt bad, but I'm pretty sure he was thinking that I deserved it just a little... I was kind of thinking the same thing.  I recovered and we (he) finished cutting the trunk off and we got the tree inside where it now consumes a gallon of water a day.  All the other decorations went up without a problem and we are even going to attempt to put lights up outside on the tree in the front yard.  We kept that piece of tree trunk and made an ornament out of it for the tree.  The only problem now is that the dog keeps pulling the tree skirt off and using it to bury her bones in the house.   

Our lovely tree and all our decor... don't mind the referee on the TV!

  

And So It Goes

It's all starting to be too much.  I got over my baby blues just in time to start getting the crap kicked out of me while itching from head to toe.  As Jake gets bigger, I obviously feel him more frequently.  I have decided he is all elbows and knees and he is in the process of busting out of the belly.  When he isn't karate chopping my spleen or bladder, he is wedged down in my pelvic area making it nearly impossible to move without moaning in pain.  I mean seriously.    He has four more months.  It's not like he has to stand in line at the door.  It's not Black Friday in there... no one else is trying to make a break for the exit.  He could live a little higher in the belly for a while.  Just saying...

In itching news, the rash is almost clear except for a spot here or there.  It has been replaced with scaly flaky alligator skin.  It reminds me of that Nivea commercial.  Maybe I should go for a casting call.  You would think no rash means no itch, but you would be very very wrong.  I had quite an episode the other morning trying to get to an itch on my bicep while wearing a sweater and jacket and driving.  Good times. 

It doesn't stop there, however.  The itching has spread to my upper belly which I am told is due to stretching.  I lube up with body butter and it seems to help.  What is does not help is the insane itching on my nipples!  Nothing helps and I have tried everything.  I put cold packs on them (which really isn't pleasant), I tried Benadryl cream, Caladryl, lotion, and nail polish.  All this did was give me cold, crusty nipples that smelled like acetone.  Today I was hiding under my desk scratching so my students wouldn't notice.  Again my poor roommates at work were subjected to Debby Does Round Rock as I went on a scratching frenzy.  So imagine if you will a preggo teacher who already has out of control nipple hard ons... now I am pinching and tweaking them all day due to the itching!  No one told me pregnancy was going to turn me into a porn star.