I’ve given up the fight for now.
In the past two weeks, I’ve purchased about 10 shirts, a couple of cardigans, two pairs of jeans, leggings and a pair of dress pants. If you run into me, you can be sure I will be wearing a combination of any three of these things:
I’m done. I don’t want to outfit myself for pregnancy. I don’t want to experiment and keep trying to find a top that doesn’t make me want to wretch. I am tired of avoiding mirrors because I don’t want to waste an ounce of energy even allowing my head to go to that place where it recoils in horror at seeing my body “get fat again” when dear sweet Jesus it’s a BABY, it is not me going back to a dark place where I only found solace in potato chips, cheap beer and bad decisions.
Everyone and their brother seems to be watching in rightful awe at this photo series of a man documenting his lovely wife’s pregnancy.
(I love her hair and am seriously considering bringing this with me the next time my sister-in-law does my hair. And her style is just lovely, though I’m certain that my pre-pregnancy behind wasn’t given its rightful due in American Apparel clothing so there’s that.)
I would love to be that lady, documenting her growing belly and taking snapshots left and right and woe is me that is not me. I certainly don’t hate my body or the massive changes that are taking place, but I’m going to have to hurdle years worth of photo phobias that will take more work than for which this pregnant lady has the time or patience. I’d rather read and sleep and make playlists for that evening’s music lesson. My friend Jessamyn generously offered to take pregnancy shots of me as a gift, and she’s wickedly talented and a professional, so I’m going to put my belly and insecurities in her capable hands, rather than try and tackle this one on my own. She’s never steered me wrong before, and so I’m blessed in this capacity to have such a member of my tribe.
I’m learning quickly how very much I don’t have to try and overcome because my neuroses aren’t particularly scalable.
So I’m probably going to be wearing some variation of the same outfit for the next five months. And there won’t be weekly belly shots. And it’s unlikely that I will ever be fully comfortable with passing by our massive dining room mirror and seeing my squat little body and think, “Gee, Erin, you are a shining vessel of femininity and motherhood and you are just beautiful,” but I think it’s OK, and doesn’t make any less grateful that I’m able to have this experience.
It simply makes me, well, me, and while it means I am committing a grave offense (“Leggings are not pants!”), and I don’t have pictures of every moment of this pregnancy, I am super comfortable and sweating the important stuff, and not the size of my ass.
