But, ya know. Somehow I still manage to find something. Just to keep things interesting.
Truth be told, lately I've been feeling a little down. A little (okay, a lot), frumpy. Lumpy. In general, mushy and gross and mega unattractive. And although I've gotten pretty good about laughing at myself and shrugging it off (can't take these things too seriously, ya know), over time, even stupid little things can begin to wear on you.
The other day I went shopping, decided to buy the first pregnancy dress I've purchased in 4 years. Quite possibly the first ANY dress I've purchased in 4 years, come to think about it. I got it in my head that it was time for a change. I wanted something flirty, something feminine. Something, dare I say, sexy.
Yes, I agree. I was asking an awful lot out of a maternity dress.
And it didn't go to well. The first stop to the local maternity store taught me that my boobs are smaller than the dress makers expect. By a lot. Even in their smallest sizes. Apparently, other ladies grow great big gigantor chesticles when they grow babies. I, it would seem, do not. Then along with the terror of the saggy top, I was forced, again and again and again, to see my belly button. Because of the crappy cheap fabric, I assure you. And my hips look weird. Gross weird. Stupid weird hips.
Can I just stop here and ask: why the HECK is it possible to feel like you've you got a giant wonky body when wearing maternity clothes??? Maternity clothes are MADE for giant wonky bodies. This is supposed to be the ONE FREAKING TIME where they know exactly what your body is dealing with, and work to present it in the best way possible. Or just stick you in thin, clingy, terrifyingly revealing crap fabric. Sure. Either way.
Anyway, second store. Found a dress. Very little selection, buy they had a knee length, almost fitted on top (MIRACLE!), flowy black dress. Just what I'd been looking for. So I excitedly threw in a cheap-yet-sparkly pair of earrings and ran home to model my new duds for the husband. And I did. And he responded: "It's good! It's... a maternity dress." Which is when I turned to walk away, almost definitely (yes, definitely) flipping him off in the process. Because I didn't want to look like I was pregnant. I didn't want to wear a maternity dress. I wanted to be hot stuff. Apparently, the dress hadn't got the memo on these deepest wants and desires.
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| The dress that doesn't know my life, or understand my undying need for sex-appeal. |
Jump forward. Today, I bought a new maternity bathing suit. The first one I've ever owned. Do you know exactly how much fabric it takes to cover my body right now? Because it's a lot.
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| A lot. |
Anyway, all of the shopping from this weekend, and the coinciding self-loathing sentiments got me thinking: Why? I've been pregnant before. Why do I feel so wretched about it THIS time?
I think I may have figured it out. The answer, as it turns out, was in the math. After some quick calculating, I discovered that I have been pregnant and/or nursing now for 23 months straight. And I will most likely be pregnant or nursing for another 17 consecutive months. Now another step further. In the past 4 1/2 years, I have been pregnant and/or nursing a baby for 44 total months. For all my math hating friends out there, that translates to 3 years and 8 months. In 4 1/2 years, I've only been free of these periods for about 10 months. I'm starting to think it's the numbers that are getting to me.
Raising kids is freaking awesome. Don't get me wrong. I LOVE the babies. but that doesn't mean it's not exhausting. And painful. And stressful. For almost 4 years now, a tiny person has ruled my body, dictating what I could ingest, how I looked, and frequently, how I physically felt. And aside from how amazing the whole experience can be, it can also leave you feeling more like a vehicle, a tool, a device for feeding and breeding, and not at all like a woman. Sometimes not even like a human. Which really leaves you wondering when they took that mom on TLC with the 37 children and switched her out for a baby-having cyborg. I'm guessing some time around kid 6.
Alright. I've written more than enough tonight, and this is probably the absolute last thing in the world that deserves to be complained about. Tomorrow I'll write in again, telling you how terrible it is to be outrageously, ridiculously wealthy, and you can all shed a tear on my behalf.
Happy June, dear friends, hope it's been just the Juniest!
