Yea, yea, another Pregnant Me post. This is my life, and I blog about my life, and so (for now), I blog about pregnancy.
I’m afraid I’ll be a puffy overweight round dumpy pregnant woman and (here’s the part where you’ll avert your eyes or gasp in dismay or close the browser) part of that is an ethnic hang-up. I’m Hispanic (and never sure whether I should capitalize the term, but WordPress believes I should and so I shall) and I have this mental image of a frumpy little lady with a huge belly and unkempt hair looking… well, round. Yes, with a tired face, surrounded by kids, cooking something.
I said it was a hang-up, didn’t I?
Despite this fear, I am wearing an ill-fitting sweatshirt with my hair in a messy bun because I didn’t wash it today, nary a lick of make-up to be found on my semi-greasy face. Yes, I work from home, but I do have enough of a social life that when a (adorably pregnant) neighbor drops by to bring me a dress she’s sweetly offered for my upcoming business trip, I feel dumpy.
Because I look dumpy, let’s be honest. My mental picture of myself isn’t very far from reality, as it turns out.
So she leaves after a couple of hours of catching up (and only one sad comment about how she’s now a former neighbor *sniff*) and I come inside to buy some maternity clothes, all inspired by her cuteness, because she’s due in April and just freaking adorable.
And then I confront my mental picture of ME as a pregnant woman – round, dumpy, ethnic (more than usual?) and… something I can’t put my finger on and am not trying too hard because I’m chicken. You? I think you look adorable pregnant. I love seeing belly pics and checking out how you’ve managed to accessorize a body part that’s quickly approaching the size of a watermelon. Even (especially) if you are ethnic.
But me? Nope. I was perusing the sale at Isabella Oliver (because they send me emails every single day, I kid you not) and realized I’m uncomfortable with the idea of a sexy pregnant woman. Their clothes are very body revealing and unabashedly sexy, something I cannot get my mind to accept, especially for a business trip. This is somewhat hypocritical since my work uniform of choice is a slim pencil skirt and sweater set with three-inch heels. That’s sexy, right?
To be very honest, this isn’t just a pregnant thing. I dress like crap and then wonder why I don’t feel like I have it together. Then I have occasion to dress up and am surprised by how together I feel. After, oh, I don’t know, TEN YEARS of struggling to clothe this boobs-too-big not-tall-enough body, I had kind of figured it out, but now I’m back to the drawing board.
How does one clothe a short, busty woman with a belly? Drapey layers seem like a bad idea; skinny jeans make me think I look like I’ll fall over; heels are ridiculous when one works from home; tight tank tops under sweaters might not work anymore.
And, well, okay, I’m uncomfortable with the whole pregnant woman thing altogether, an awkward place to be when one is pregnant. I never dreamed of being pregnant, didn’t imagine myself with a newborn in my arms, didn’t want to be the mommy when playing make believe. I much preferred to be the boss or the teacher, both positions that came with authority and didn’t require that I pretend to birth the baby first.
So now I’m a little lost and a lot uncomfortable. I watch birth videos and think, “Ugg, so grunty” and peruse maternity clothes and think, “Ugh, that belly is so awkward.” My mind doesn’t want to accept the idea of my pregnant body or of myself as a mother.
I want the kid, but wish I didn’t have to be pregnant to get there. And look, I get that many woman would badly like to be pregnant and can’t; my heart goes out to you if that’s you and my fist bashes me in the head on your behalf for being such an a-hole and whining about how I don’t like the way I look when I’m pregnant.
This is similar to all of my whining and complaining about how I didn’t want to be a bride. ‘Twas not a title that ever fit into my mental picture of myself, hence the entire engagement spent fighting everything a bride should or should not. Wasted energy.
But it’s there and until I deal with it, I’m going to continue to wear the same pair of cargo pants because I’m refusing to buy more, so I guess it’s time. Consider yourself warned.