For several months now, I’ve accidentally been walking around in public wearing a nightgown. I realized this the other day after my husband and I returned from a friend’s birthday party and I slipped off the lacy red A-line dress I had on. I’m pregnant, and I got a lot of my maternity wear secondhand. As I held the dress, a vision flashed into my head. I pictured the woman I bought the dress from asking if I’d like the matching bathrobe and me saying “No, thanks.”
I’d completely forgotten that it was a nightgown, not a dress.
I had a second of OMG! but then, it passed. Walking around town in a nightgown was just one of many imperfect life happenings that has befallen me since I’ve gotten pregnant, and it’s been amazingly freeing.
Let’s start with the reason for my new PJ’s-in-public style: pregnancy brain. I’ve got a pretty advanced case of it. I’ve sent emails to the wrong addresses. I go down to our basement to get something, and for the life of me can’t remember what it was. I’ve spaced out on people’s names — once, someone I’ve known for fifteen years. I’ve lost my keys more times than I can remember (which really, I can’t). The momnesia can be a bit mortifying, but really, it’s not something I can control and so I apologize, send emails with the signature #thisispregnancybrain, and let it go.
Then there’s the belching, another known pregnancy phenomenon. Not the garden-variety kind — we’re talking supersonic burps. Perhaps you’ve heard me? They’re a side effect of increased progesterone during pregnancy, which impacts the digestive track. Mercifully, I am able to contain them at work but at home, I don’t hold back. One side benefit is that I’ve become my children’s new form of entertainment.
My house has also been a victim of this pregnancy. No more staying up till midnight to putter around and de-clutter, because my body officially wants to go to bed at about 9:30 p.m. (Also: I can’t really bend down.) The kids’ playthings end up all over the floor, not to be moved until I say — in my most pathetic voice — “You don’t want me to trip over that, do you?” Paperwork and magazines have taken over all kitchen countertop surfaces. My husband appears to be building The Leaning Tower of Dirty Socks in one corner of our bedroom. And I just don’t care. I have better things to concern myself with — like what I’m going to eat next.
I’ve stopped worrying about what relatives think if I slack off on making plans; hey, I need my rest. I don’t feel guilty for not volunteering for every single local opportunity I get hit with. And if my son wears the same shirt two days in a row — because I didn’t get around to doing laundry and/or just forgot — so be it.
My burgeoning belly has been the most freeing thing of all. It enters rooms before I do. Some maternity clothing is starting to feel snug, and I’m only in my second trimester. It is the mountain formerly known as my stomach, and it is a wonder to behold. Skinny jeans and obsessing about the number on the scale, forget you. Cellulite, too, since I’m no longer able to see my thighs.
So there it is, my rude, messy, lazy, socially incorrect, oversized, nightgown-wearing existence.
I think I could get used to this.More On