Along came Piccolino...

I have never been the bikini-wearing type. Shortly after my 2 year old body donned a 2T bathing suit, it became apparent that my Italian, mountain-dwelling DNA gave me a more substantive than graceful form. While high school was not much fun thanks to the snide remarks of the long-legged wonders who chose between the itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny-yellow-polka-dot or pink-polka-dot bikinis, the benefit of age has changed my perspective on my more ample form. Instead of loathing the physicality that denoted my failure to conform to white suburbia, I began to see my body as a link to the wonderful, strong women of my past. Women whose spirit and vision lead them to leave their homes in far countries and risk everything to come to a new country. Women whose lineage would culminate (for now) in my existence, full of potential and hope and opportunity.

Needless to say, I still often bemoan my inability to look sleek in capri pants and my propensity to represent the lollipop guild if I venture toward any article of clothing lacking solid structure and raised hem lines. Even in my wedding dress, which I loved and deemed magical, the bounty of my form was apparent. While cautious not to let my comfort with my form become synonymous with inattention to health, I simply can no longer waste the energy on trying to be a size 6, when my body tortures itself to stay in a 12. So, approaching the 30 year mark on my life, I can now say that I am comfortable in my own skin.

Then, along came Piccolino.

Again, I am going to attempt to abstain from graphic representation of my exact complaints, but there are some issues which are definitely a part of my pregnancy, which are worthy of discussion. 7 weeks in, and I've already been maternity shopping. Yup. That's right: MATERNITY SHOPPING.

While my stomach has never been flat by any means, there still is not a noticeable baby bump. I just look like I've skipped the gym, as opposed to ACCELERATING my cardio regiment. However, if you travel slightly north of my waist line, there is an area which has always been prominent. Guess what!? It's getting even more so now. Awesome.

The very first discomfort signaling something was different in my body and which prompted me to take my first pregnancy test was in that region. Those pains have continued, increased intermittently, and (apparently) have wrought some change. Thus, everything I own looks like a bad attempt at being a chubby, short Jessica Rabbit knock-off. Even those frocks reserved for covering my body on those days when I don't feel my best are puckering in that very "blessed" area.

While I may write it off and simply resign myself to large T-shirts or loosely formed tarps, I have at least one important event coming up. We are set to travel to Utah September 1 for a West coast celebration of our wedding. My in laws are very modest people. No one on my husband's side of the family has ever, for even a moment, made me feel as though I need to conform to an outward standard. However, I cannot imagine meeting their friends and extended family looking like a Dolly Parton replica minus the tiny waist line. Even though we are making this new announcement while celebrating the last major life event, I would like to look young and happy and kept and not-white-trash. Is that really to much to ask, Piccolino?

So, in the tradition of the great men who went before him, my father pulled up to our house yesterday, arms full of goodies from his garden, "meat bread" that his grandmother used to make that my mother learned to replicate PERFECTLY, and after dinner plans that involved a trip to the local mall. After enjoying our Penne a la Vodka and meat bread, my parents loaded in the car with Nathaniel and I and set off on our first maternity shopping trip. At seven weeks into this pregnancy.

The good news is, there is a conscientious movement to make pregnant women feel attractive, even in spite of the seemingly unnatural distortions occurring in their bodies. The bad news: I never embraced my bump BEFORE being pregnant. I am not likely to start now.

After hating my ever increasing bosom, wanting to walk a careful financial line, and still being in shock that I was in a maternity store (at 7 weeks along... SEVEN WEEKS!), we eventually settled on 2 shirts that could take me a ways into this process, and 2 dresses I could wear in Utah and maintain my sense of dignity and self respect in front of Nathaniel's family and friends.

I am not going to downplay my disappointment with how rapidly my body is eager to take on extra weight and distribute it in ways that make me look akin to a Picasso painting. I worked hard to forget the taunts of those long-legged high schoolers. There are days when their words still ring louder than my appreciation for my ancestry. I am not pleased that I annually travel with my mom to an outlet that can furnish me with enough "support" for an entire year, and now have to deviate from those things to accommodate my circus-worthy body. However, I acknowledge that other women go through worse.

My clients with active hallucinations learn to deal with voices distorting their perception of reality in order to gestate a child. Other friends have gone through daily injections of hormones to prepare for and maintain a pregnancy. My own mother endured toxemia AND pre eclampsia. My poor cousin and best friend didn't see her own feet for a year, thanks to her child and her similar gestational development. I understand that to bring forth this child, who had better NEVER say that I don't love him or her, my body is subject to changes that will protect and nourish him or her, but may not contribute to my ideal appearance standards.

I just have to vent this disappointment.

And, then, I have to get over it.

I have a father who is willing to buy me a "Pregnancy calendar" just because I mentioned wanting it. I have a mother who is planning Friday soups for me during the winter, as she craved it and has a suspicion I will as well (and she also knows it will be a vibrant link to the grandmother I just lost and wish could be around for this season). I have a husband who went to a mall on a SATURDAY NIGHT, attempted to attend to his surroundings as best he could, and still loves me. I have a brother who is willing to mock me endlessly. I have endless friends willing to listen. I have 5 sisters in law who supernaturally know when I need a text/phone call/Facebook message/other expression of love. All in all, it's not a bad way to have your deck stacked.

but, Really??? REALLY??? SEVEN WEEKS??? REALLY??? This kid better be cute :)