Like most women I know, I have jeans in an array of sizes. Sexy jeans, for when I’m feeling fit; ordinary jeans; and fat jeans. I’ve been living in my fat jeans on weekends since Labour Day, and all my work pants seem to have a bit of stretch in them (can I get a hallelujah for lycra?), so I haven’t been thinking much about maternity pants just yet. Denial is not just a river in Africa.
Mind you, I’m only 8 weeks pregnant, and you might think it’s a little early to be thinking about maternity pants anyway, third child or not. I think I was around twelve weeks when I finally started wearing them with Tristan, probably a little earlier than that with Simon. Then again, I also kept 10 extra pounds as a souvenir of each pregnancy, so I’m not exactly svelte to begin with.
So on Saturday, Simon smeared something of unmentionable origins on my otherwise clean (fat) jeans, and I found myself rooting through the closet on Sunday morning looking for something to wear. I tried on my ‘ordinary’ jeans, and to my utter dismay, I couldn’t even get the zipper done up. You can’t use the famous elastic-through-the-buttonhole trick if you can’t even get the friggin’ zipper done up. And I don’t really wear track pants or yoga pants, so I was pretty much looking at spending the day with a towel wrapped around my waist, which I probably would have been happy enough to do except we were meeting friends for breakfast.
So I took a deep breath and tried not to think about the fact that I’m only two months pregnant, and I pulled out a pair of maternity jeans. Right at that moment, I think my belly popped out. And yet, for the next two hours I pulled and tugged and yanked as those suckers slid right off my hips. The towel would have been easier and more flattering. I even tried safety-pinning the hem of my shirt to the waist of my pants, which promptly tore a hole in the hem of my shirt. And of course, every time gravity did its work and the pants slid down, they brought my underwear with them, so every two steps I had to not only hitch up my pants, but stick my hands into my pants and yank my underwear back into place as well.
Not pretty. Nothing puts me in a bad mood faster than pants that don’t fit. Oh, how I hate the transitional phase.
So after breakfast, the boys went to the bookstore while I went directly to the maternity store. Did you know they’ve invented stuff and totally changed the look of maternity clothes in the two years since I’ve had Simon? They have these pants called “now and after”, that are designed for the early months and the time immedately post-partum when you have all of the flab but none of the belly. They’re full of lovely lycra, and rather than a belly panel they have a thick elastic waist at the back, so the waistband runs under your belly. They’re actually rather flattering, so I bought two pairs – which I will alternate for the next month and a half. (Who am I kidding? At this rate, I’ll have outgrown the transitional pants by next Wednesday.)
And although they looked absolutely adorable in the store, and seemed to fit quite well, I discovered on the way to work this morning that they have the same gravitational susceptibility as my maternity pants.
If you see a girl wandering about downtown employing a rather unique and awkward-looking “step-step-hitch-step-step-dig-yank-step” gait, do be sure to say hello. I’m heading out to find some suspenders…