Very classy, I know.
But, nonetheless, I stood there, draped in a maternity sweater I was trying on, feeling very much like Santa Claus. The jolly old elf. Who easily weighs 200 pounds. The sweater's belt tied above my waist that has expanded just a tad and, well, everything is, um, rounder these days. Bigger. So there I stood, big and round at only 12 weeks, feeling extremely self-conscious and very, very sad.
Dreadfully pathetic, I know.
And, of course, since I am a girl, my mind immediately drifted to only a few months ago, frolicking on the shores of Aruba, feeling pretty good about life in general and not worrying about how I looked in my shorts or how my sundress fit, a thought process that immediately propelled me into some sort of hormonal hopelessness as I now stood feeling fat in the dressing room of a department store back here in the Midwest, and the tears, oh the tears, they started. I wiped them away, feeling stupid, until I put my hoodie back on. My HOODIE. I stared at the reflection staring back at me: Disheveled hair, pooch, hoodie, smeared mascara ... and oh, the tears flowed. And then I felt even more stupid, because good grief! I'm pregnant! It's okay to get a little bigger, nay, it's expected for me to get a little bigger. Pull it together, woman! (But for the love, maybe find something a tad more flattering than a HOODIE to wear. Every day.)
I straightened my shoulders and headed out of the dressing room and left the store empty-handed.
(The extremely unflattering sweater was, well, extremely unflattering, and also came with an unsightly $82 price tag. Really, Kohl's, really? Maternity? $82? At KOHL'S?? Even my 15% off coupon couldn't justify that. So now I kind of hate Kohl's. I never really liked Kohl's. But now I kind of hate them.)
(But I had a COUPON!)
(I'll get over it tomorrow.)
So, I headed home to shop in my closet and figure out which outfits still work. See, here's the deal. My jeans still zip up. I just have a slight muffin top now. That's right. Not a cute pooch belly, but a muffin top. I've worn my Bella Band a few times, but it doesn't stay up. And maternity jeans aren't even an option yet, as I had earlier hoped (they, too, fall off). So now I'm left feeling fat. That weird, "No I'm not fat, I'm pregnant" feeling. Blah. After trying on several sweaters and tops in my closet, I felt my eyes well up again. That's when I quietly closed my closet door and then scrubbed our master bathroom so clean you could see your reflection in the countertops. My hands hurt. My head hurt. My nose sniffled from the ridiculous crying. But goodness, I needed SOMETHING to feel good about by the end of the day and since my body wasn't going to be it, a clean bathroom would suffice. It's hard to argue with a sparkly toilet.
After the aggressive scrubbing, I went back into my closet and found a top I kind of liked. I put it on and later in the evening I asked my husband if I looked as fat as I felt in my clothes.
And he answered, "I think you look good in everything."
And then he gave me the cheesiest, most proud-of-himself grin I have ever seen, and in that moment my heart burst because I knew I had married the best most wonderful lying husband who ever walked the face of the earth.
And I went to bed happy. Maybe it wasn't such a bad day, after all?