Wearing clouds

 

     7:15am. I wake up to the alarm on my phone, turned down to it's absolute lowest volume while still allowing me to hear it and the soft, rhythmic breathing of my only son laying next to me. I kiss his soft, chubby cheek and with the agility of a ninja begin to levitate up, off of the bed and silently touch one toe lightly to the floor, followed quickly by nine others. I hug myself tightly and with steps jerky and uncoordinated from still being partly asleep, I walk around the bed and over to my closet. The cold from the uninsulated little nook hits my face as I open the door and I have only a brief moment to make a huge decision before the cold makes me pee my pants. It is the biggest decision of my day and I dread it every morning. Maternity pants or real pants. What should I do? The struggle is real.

     Maternity pants during pregnancy are absolutely amazing. They stretch and move with you like a second skin. It's like they defy gravity by staying up without ever touching you. Yet putting them on feels like a big, safe hug. The sensation is impossible to describe.

     I remember the first time I put my legs into the most amazing invention ever created. It was Christmas day. I got pregnant in early October, so by the holidays I was still trying to stuff my tiny baby and fat ass into my old skinny jeans, using a hair elastic to tie my button to the button hole of my pants. It looked as good as it sounds and it felt even better but I had nothing else to compare it to so it was good enough for me. By the end of the night however, I was dying to take off my pants and breathe again so I went into the bathroom at my parent's house where we were celebrating and put on a pair of the new maternity pants that I had just opened earlier that day. My mind was blown. I never looked back. The feeling that I had when I put this beautiful, soft, stretchy band over my belly was what I imagine a heroine user feels the first time they shoot up. I would be chasing this dragon for the next year of my life.

Hi. My name is Stacey and I am a maternity pant addict.

     Maternity pants are also wonderful after giving birth, especially when you gave birth through a slice in your abdomen. After having a baby through c section, I was terrified to have anything even touch my incision. I treated the hideous mesh panties that the hospital gives you like they were spun of pure gold, carefully washing them by hand every night. I cherished them so much that my dear husband actually went back to the hospital for me to get me more when mine started falling apart. I even bought a box on Amazon when I decided that these were the only underwear that I would ever wear ever again. Thankfully, I did eventually come to my senses and acknowledged that disposable underwear were in fact, not my future and I forced myself to put on real underwear. But I just couldn't shake the maternity pant bug.

     In part, I blame nursing for my unhealthy attachment to this article of clothing. In situations where

my shirt required bottom access to feed Archer, it was nice having pants that went up to my boobs to cover my belly from societies judging eyes and to avoid scarring small children. They give a nice sense of modesty even though one of your boobs is completely out in the middle of Target.

     As wonderful as maternity pants are early on, they start to feel more and more pathetic as the days pass by. For me, I could no longer justify them with a straight face after eight sensational, liberating months.  I told myself many times that “Today is the last day, tomorrow I'm wearing real pants.” But there was always some excuse. It's cold and I want to be able to wear my high boots that don't look right under pants. It's icy and I don't want to carry the baby in heels but all of my regular pants are too long for flats. It's too hard to roll around on the floor with Archer in jeans. On and on and on. Yet as the brisk winter wind slapped at my face and chilled my bones I promised myself that as soon as the spring arrived, so would my real clothes. I was going to step up my game and wear actual pants.

     So, as the Spring weather broke and the sun was finally upon us for two weeks straight... I woke up in the morning, walked over to my closet... And still couldn't face real pants. So I wore dresses. I don't know why, but even dresses and heels feel more comfortable to me than pants. I freaking hate pants so much. I don't know where this hate came from but to be honest, as all therapist's do... I blame my family. I come from a long line of people who hate pants. Growing up, we were all rarely dressed from the waist down in my family while in the comfort of our own home. Ever since I was a kid the minute I got home from school my pants came off. In every home movie of me as a kid, there I am running around in underpants. It wasn't in an exhibitionist way or anything. It was just a comfort thing. We all hate pants. Hell, I married a man who hates pants. I still live in a house where no one ever wears pants. My three year old nephew is now carrying the torch proudly. It is rare to see him at home wearing pants. It's just not our thing. A pair of tighty whities unencumbered by pants should be at the front and center of our family crest.

     It's difficult to get yourself back after having a baby. The last thing you want is anything pressing up against your abdomen. So in the beginning, it is just a matter of not being able to stand being the slightest bit MORE uncomfortable than you already are. As a matter of fact, all areas of your outward appearance suffer greatly after having a baby. Hair styling is difficult due to time restrictions. You only get small pockets of time when an infant is asleep and does not need to be entertained, changed or fed. I exclusively nursed Archer which meant feedings on demand around the clock to make sure that I could get my milk supply up to where it needed to be, so for the first few months that is basically all I did. Applying make-up also takes time and focus, two thing that are in very short supply when you are a new mommy. So it wasn't until I returned to work that I actually forced myself to stop pretending that I was an extra on The Walking Dead and actually made myself look presentable, human and alive.

     When I was a lady of leisure, getting ready was an hour and a half ordeal and something that I actually really enjoyed. I liked taking my time and relaxing while getting ready, maybe listening to music or watching television as I fixed my hair and make-up. Now, like everything else in my life it is a daily challenge to just complete the task in the time that it takes my son to take a nap or play in his pack-n-play before he suffers a level five meltdown. It is like putting on eyeliner next to a ticking time bomb. I have streamlined my getting ready routine so that I can be completely ready for any event head to toe, full make-up and hair in forty-five minutes. Honestly, I end up looking exactly the same now as I did then, just significantly less relaxed.

     I've also made other attempts to get myself together after having a baby. One was my hair. I noticed that I stopped styling my hair; a realization that hit me on Thanksgiving this year. Never has a holiday passed before that I didn't bother doing something with my hair. But this year, I wore it up in a bun. It was just too hard to watch the baby and do anything else.  I needed to make a change and force myself out of this hair rut so, I cut it all off. I always said that I wouldn't be one of those women who have a baby and chop off their hair, but guess what, it turns out that I am. I'm exactly that woman. Six short months and all conviction went right out of the window. My goal was to get it cut short enough that I couldn't pull it back and would be forced to style it everyday and it worked. Other than Saturdays for swim class, I style my hair almost every single day. As a mom, we all need to pat ourselves on the back for small victories like that. “Ha! Look at me, not looking like a cave woman today. Well done!”

     Slowly I started to feel myself morphing into a combination of my old and new selves. Old in that I again can leave my home without looking homeless and new in that the new version of me is a mommy with bigger concerns than if I have vomit on my shirt or not. Slowly, I started to incorporate actual pants into my repertoire and I have to admit, it feels good once I'm out and about... But not as good as those maternity pants felt.

     I am far from recovered. I know that it is a process. In fact, I relapsed this weekend. With the return of the cold air and sprinkling of delicate snowflakes hanging on to the fresh blades of spring grass on the ground, I gave in to my own need for comfort and I rocked my maternity pants once again. But after a three day binge, I am now back on track and typing this blog while sitting uncomfortably in real pants... At least until I get home.