Clothes Call

Last night was an exercise in clothing humiliation. We had tickets to an opera, which meant that I had to get dressed up for the first time in a while. And that, sadly, means no elastic waistband pants. About an hour before we had to leave, I went through my closet, foolishly thinking I can get away with wearing one of my skirts, since most of them sit so low on my hips anyway, and it was my stomach that was getting bigger and not, say, my hips, right? Well, practically none of my skirts fit. At all. I couldn’t get them zipped up on the side or the back, thanks to my expanding stomach and, apparently, expanding other parts.

I finally found one that didn’t look ridiculous, and I even found a shirt that covered my stomach, thanks in part to the fact that the skirt, which used to sit so low on me that I would have to make sure my underwear wasn’t showing, now comes up to over my belly button. The skirt covers my stomach, but then sort of falls down, creating an oh-so-lovely tent-like appearance. I just felt like a blob, fat, stuffed into a skirt that I can maybe wear for a couple more weeks, which is good since we have another one in about two weeks. But, again, believe me, I am so happy to be in this position.

We went to an opera back in November when I was around nine weeks, and I remember thinking that by the next time opera, I would be almost 5 months. It seemed so improbable. And I said then that if something awful happened, we wouldn’t come to this performance, since it would just be too sad (yet another thing ruined by infertility). And yet, there we were, me stuffed a little tighter in the seat. I still can’t believe it. Baby A seemed to like the experience, because she was kicking a lot during the performance. Baby B may have also been moving around, too, which is so not like Baby B, who seems to be the calmer of the two.

I don’t think they can actually hear the music, and I am still not even sure if that is movement I am feeling or just gas or, more likely, stomach fat multiplying. My ob/gyn tells me because of the anterior placentas, it will be hard to really feel anything for a while. But I am feeling something. And I like to think it is movement, which means we are getting dangerously close to the months when I will start obsessing over movement, despite the ministrations of my friend Jen, who warns me not to get caught up in that.

Clothes in general are really becoming an issue. Thank goodness Nicole is the opposite of me: I like all my clothes tight and form-fitting (not painted on, just not baggy) while she favors (in casual wear, at least) the oversized, non-form-fitting clothes. So I have been raiding her closets for shirts and turtlenecks and sweaters. Thank goodness for her button-downs collection, which I always argued was too large (do you really need a shirt in six shades of, say, blue?) and now I am wondering why she can’t have about 20 more of these shirts. She is not the skirt-wearing type, so I am on my own in that department. I’m in charge of my own bottoms.

Yesterday, we met with another contractor about building the babies’ room. The first one never followed up with an estimate. Nice. But we really like this one, and he can start very soon, which is great because I am getting really excited to get this started and done. Nicole and I talked more about colors and we may have agreed to a soft, soft petal pink room color with a mint green rug. It will look good with the dark wood blinds and the dark cribs we want to get. Yes, I know pink is the opposite of gender neutral but we do need a light color to brighten up the room. And I think I may have scared Nicole with this very girly pink chandelier-y type think that I emailed her a picture of. What is happenening to me? Maybe it is just a stage. After all, the Girl News is only officially a little over three days old.

Did I mention too that I am an emotional wreck? That rheumatoid arthritis commercial (“I will be free, I will be strong, when the ni-i-i-iight is long”) makes me well up every time. And that depression commercial (“Where does depression hurt? Everywhere. Who does depression hurt? Everyone.”) also makes me lose it.

It is clear that I am no longer in control of my body or my emotions. Two little less-than-a-pound beings have taken over.

The above picture of us (the four of us!) showcases my extra-puffy cheeks, my 14 new chins, my receding lips and my expanding gums (wtf?), my generally expanding self (by the minute) and my last fitting skirt. Hello, darkness/body issues, my old friend. I look taller than Nicole, which I am not. I'm sure Nicole would want me to point that out. She is very happy that she is like one inch taller than me. (ok, maybe it is two inches, but who—other than Nicole—is counting?)