Archives: anti-maternitywear

Boot cut

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?”

Here come the boot cut jeans

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

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 this film clip.

There’s the horrible picture of a soft toy and a wee-soaked stick.

That's just wrong.

That’s just wrong.


There’s the picture of pasta sauce.

Pasta sauce

However, I know how to pronounce “prego”. And it ain’t “preggo”.
It’s in there… maybe we can work with that…


There’s a world of cringe out there.

Seeking a pithy statement of my own, seeking that crucial social media cut-through. Like a quiver of cheesiness, all prefaced by Guess what? 

Guess what?

“I’m not getting fat, I’m four months pregnant”

… edited to “Not fat. Pregnant” – T-shirt ready…


Guess what?

Those mood swings weren’t early menopause, after all.


Guess what?

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!

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