Tuesday, 10 January 2017

Oh, it's only the final count down.

My app says 21 days to go. 37 weeks today. Wowzer, I remember the epic snail crawl that it was to the 12 week mark we tried to hold out for before telling everybody. And now, according to so many posts, readings and books, the last month of pregnancy is back to that similar snail crawl. For which, as I am currently kicking my feet up in NiceNa, my opinion is torn in two. On the one hand, I cant wait for this pregnancy to be over, I am done with the swollen ankles (and newly added oversized knees) after five minutes of being on my feet and having foregone the capability of bending over my enormous stomach to do well, basically anything but mostly trying to tie the straps of my shoes. I look forward to the waving goodbye to the feet that resemble my grandmother’s. I love my granny, but I’m not even 30 yet, have not been on my feet for twice as many years so I really am done with this look. It’s not vain. I just finally own a pair of united nudes for goodness sake! 

And then on the other hand, there’s that terrifying task ahead of me of child birth. Which as much of a hurry I am in to get this #fattummy time over, I’m feeling like I really would like for little lion cub / babyPablo to hold up until we’re home and a 10 minute drive over to the hospital to have Dr Hurwitz deliver. 

So when asked whether I’m ready for this to be over, my answer is as non-decisive or flippant, or what’s that damned word when you cant decide between things and constantly change your mind?
Flaky! Yes! Flaky, my answer is always dictated by the weather and the condition of my ankles. On lovely, cool days, I can hold out. On those hot, humid, everything is sticking to me and all I can do is lie down, no, get this guy out of me.

But having said all of this, and having seriously questioned the ethics of many moms telling me how magical pregnancy is, I do understand the nostalgia. Of course, this only happens when my feet are up, I’ve just enjoyed some delectable non-diet food and there’s no chance of catching my reflection in a mirror.. Or any reflective surface for that matter. I’ve found that there is a conspiracy amongst moms to entice the newly pregnant, that pregnancy is such a beautiful journey blah blah, foregoing the truth of the matter that your body is kidnapped for 9 months and there is very little sympathy you have for yourself over that period of time. But if there wasn’t such a conspiracy, there would no longer be any cute babies made. And on the upside, every month is worse than the last, and the hormones help you forget pretty quickly how irritating it was to not fit into those “fat day” pants in the fourth month. 
trying to encourage my ankles to return through walks on the beach

Which brings me to the topic of maternity wear. Having been told plenty times that it is so refreshing to see a woman embrace her preggybelly and flaunt her new bod (although this only happened when the “I ate too many pies” boep became a non-mistakenly baby bump) that I started to wonder about this whole maternity fashion thing. Ladies telling me how back in their day they had to wear the frumpy frocks because it was expected that a pregnant woman should wear pregnancy clothing. Huh? Sorry, but for the first time in my life, I am not afraid to waddle in a bikini because A) it’s the only swimming costume that fits COMFORTABLY and B) I’m not fat, I have a person inside of me that needs all my new wobbly bits. In fact, the part I am most proud of is the tightly rounded stomach - I could seriously do without the new orange peel and flabby arms. I might even be convinced that the boobs can stay too but I’ve got way too many pretty brassiers in my usual size that I’m looking forward to wearing again eventually.

The price of maternity wear is unbelievable. Whilst in Spain, I found a very plain denim skirt with that familiar maternity elastic band waist and tried it on. I mean, it was uber comfortable, but it was honestly the most boring piece of clothing I have ever tried. Also, it did NOTHING for my ass. Not to mention at 40 Euros, was extraordinarily expensive for something that I was able to fit into comfortably at 5 months pregnant. Every pregnancy is different but one thing is for sure, you just keep getting bigger and bigger and this is not something you have ANY control over. I have both the fortune and misfortune of having a summer baby so the bulk of my pregnancy is aimed at trying to stay cool - I can't even imagine the torture of covering up in winter time, I have not been able to wear pants since July.. Leggings don’t count, those are not pants. Having said that, I’m sure I’ll be blessed to have my second pregnancy in the winter times so that I can have that next challenge. Although, at this point, a second pregnancy on its own would be a challenge. Seriously, I can feel the swelling on my feet shaking, you know, on its own accord, I’m not doing anything except elevating my feet in the vain attempt to soothe it. Magical time really.

I digress. As one does with pregnancy brain. But I really do want to talk about what’s out there for maternity wear. Because I folded and I ended up buying a pair of maternity pants. I’m a believer of cutting off the size tag because it’s about how clothing looks on you and makes you feel more than trying to squeeze into a size too small because of some stupid number. But you can’t even imagine what it’s like to try on a pair of pants in an unbelievable number, still not be able to bring these over your thighs and to think THIS IS MATERNITY CLOTHING? Are they making this for pre teen mums?? I haven’t had thunder thighs since I stopped eating two minute noodles at film school, so I don’t have especially thick legs to speak of (although pregnancy changes all of this, RE orange peel fun times) so I cant imagine which pregnant woman can fit into such pants without needing the assistance of a wheelchair to support the extra weight of her stomach on such stick legs! Seriously!
But as I said, I gave in and bought these ludicrous pants, wore them once and now they taunt me with their elasticated band and my shame. But I couldn’t let it end there. I needed to take this into my own hands. 

After watching the True Cost documentary two years ago, I researched finding material, my ultimate mission was to find an organic cotton that was fair trade and I succeeded in finding such a supplier of such but alas it was also at that heavier price tag - you know, fair trade! 
But then whilst working in Cape Town in Feb, I got a mail that she was relocating and selling off some of her beautiful jersey cotton for next to nothing. And about 25m of the stuff. It was navy and white striped cotton so quite the challenge to think of designs for clothing using that particular material so for the most part of the year, after the great effort to get it home, it spent time under the guest bed.. waiting for my pregnancy eureka moment to make some #fattummy clothes from it.
I also made tops out of that African fabric hanging there, huzzband brought that for me from Kenya even.

My huzzband teases me and says that it’s like I have a uniform but I think that my experiment turned out pretty great. I also got very excited and decided to buy some different material to copy the patterns of my #fattummy dresses and tops to extend my variety from striped pajamas to some more fun. I chose designs that you can wear post pregnancy too. My dresses can be worn without a preggbelly or paired with a belt to show off a cinched waist. The tops are flattering for all body shapes. Because it’s summer, I opted to only make one of the long dresses using my striped supply, but I think it can also be a good transitional/seasonal option for when it is a bit colder. 
Oops, where did my bindi and red lip go?

I also used the left over materials from the dresses and tops to create crop tops which I pair with long skirts for now with my #fattummy and I can hopefully wear like I used to pre pregnancy with high waisted skirts and pants post natal. I’m not delusional, I know that my post natal body will still resemble 28 weeks, but don’t tell my huzzband. He’s been ever so gallant in this journey, seeing how upset I am over clothing and generously afforded me this new wardrobe ;)
crop top AND the uniform skirt :) also, Grandfaazha.

So I tried to be clever with this expedition of clothing during gestation (sorry, I just couldn’t keep using the word pregnancy over and over in this epic essay) by making choices that would go beyond the call of duty and remain a staple within my wardrobe but you can never really prepare for how big your stomach gets. Something that fitted perfectly for two months suddenly becomes too short, something that was comfy for all time becomes too constricting over your elements (read bladder, chest, stomach). It happens. And it’s okay. Ish. Only a little further to go until you meet the little wonder that has caused such uproar in your life. You can only know for certain it’s going to get harder and even more different. So you tell yourself that it’s all okay. And you try not to read too much about labour beforehand.  

And wait, I just felt another kick. Weird how the kicks make up for everything. Here sweet little lion cub, let’s have another piece of chocolate.


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