Poncho fans are out there, I know.
For all three of you, here’s a sample of my poncho collection.
You may recall the dark despair felt when I realised my old maternity jeans were long gone. Determined to unearth a secondhand pair of Citizens, I stalked the interwebs until one day there was not one but two listings beckoning from the screen. Unsure of size, I bid on both, 28s and the 30s, thinking a roomier spare pair wouldn’t go astray. And won them both.
Well, they’ve arrived. That’s the good news, I guess.
The not-good news: They’re boot cut.
Yep, you read that right. Boot-bloody-cut.
Boot cut? What was I thinking? Surely this was mentioned in at least one of the listings. I can’t believe I willingly wore a pair of boot cut jeans even ten years ago.
Boot cut. What sane woman reads these words and thinks, “hmm, yes, I want to revisit 1998. I’m thinking boot cut jeans.”???
Boot cut. Not even enough pizazz to aim for a full retro flare.
Boot cut. The cut that says “forget these calves, check out what this proportion-illusion does to those thighs: they’re not all that slender, are they?”
Holy fucking first world maternity fashion problems. At least the denim feels nice. That’ll be appreciated when I’m gardening in them.
*And the 28s may have been shortened, too, so they flare around a high ankle. Nice. I could be wearing my son’s pants.
The Big Reveal? Or the slow drip feed. The latter was so effectively put to use by Deb, my old friend, that I didn’t find out about her pregnancy until last Tuesday. That’s the day she was scheduled to give birth via caesarian. Deb’s a week older than me. Maybe I should take her lead…
So how to let it be known? There’s the “scan pic across social media” approach, but they all look a little too amphibious. That’s already on the Facebook page, and even I’m a little grossed out by it.
I thought the fact that I’d posted pictures of baked goods on my personal Instagram would have been enough of a hint, but friends can be dim these days. It must be our encroaching middle age.
Let’s see how others handle the reveal.
There’s the horrible picture of a soft toy and a wee-soaked stick.
There’s the picture of pasta sauce.
Seeking a pithy statement of my own, seeking that crucial social media cut-through. Like a quiver of cheesiness, all prefaced by Guess what?
“I’m not getting fat, I’m four months pregnant”
… edited to “Not fat. Pregnant” – T-shirt ready…
Those mood swings weren’t early menopause, after all.
We’ll never be able to afford a holiday involving air travel again!
Daddyo and I settle on a trickle approach, leaving the kick-off up to our boys, who tell their school friends. A couple of phone calls, some face-to-facers, SMS’d scan pics, and we’re away.
I set up a blog, shimmy it out across social media, and back-date a stack of pre-written posts.
It’s awesome to finally embrace this event. I stick my due date into babycentre and sign up for the emails. (Finally.)
Now: to celebrate with a vintage Oaxacan embroidered dress. Hello, Ebay!