Just Heather

Maternity clothes suck. Nevermind the fact that they most often come in colors and designs more resembling a circus tent than any actual fashion. They don’t seem to be designed by anyone who has ever carried a child.

Supposedly, you buy your normal size in the maternity line. They are supposed to be made to grow with your belly. What these moronic—and obviously male—designers fail to take into account is the fact that your boobies and your ass grow in direct proportion to your belly. So you don’t tip over.

I find myself most often wearing hubby’s sweat pants with his t-shirts or the few maternity tops that will stretch across my ever-expanding chest. This is not incredibly flattering, but at least I’m comfortable.

Five more weeks. Then I can go back to my regular clothes—at least the ones that will stretch across the milk jugs.

I got glasses the other day for the first time in 14 years. I have a slight astigmatism, which causes things to just be a little blurry. I rarely notice it, so the glasses aren’t terribly necessary. Except when I read—which I do daily. Since my prescription is not strong, I tend to forget that I need them. I can see just fine, but my world is slightly fuzzy. Wearing my glasses is like turning the lens on a camera until it just snaps into focus.

I kept readjusting them, trying to figure out why they looked crooked when they were brand new and perfectly straight on the table. I mentioned that to my mom when she called. She says “Oh, your dad has that problem too because one of his ears is higher than the other.” Great—more shitty genes from Dad’s side. Sure enough, my right ear sits slightly higher than the left. It is not that noticable—I’ve gone 28 years without cursing Dad for that particular feature. It’s just enough that my glasses are offset. So much for blaming cheap, Dollar Tree sunglasses all these years.

I get all the worst features from my dad’s family—Picasso ears, the bump on my nose (which I now draw attention away from with my pretty, pretty purple gem), oily hair that nearly always looks wet, and big boobs. If you don’t think that one is a bad thing, you have clearly never attempted to cram jumbo balloons into an elastic cup.

Luckily, the good genes seem to be filtering down to the girls. I never really thought they look like me, but I apparently have some looks in there somewhere. I walked into Meet the Teacher Night a few days ago and the teacher said immediately “You must be Stacia’s mom!” I was early, so it wasn’t because she was the only choice left. I wasn’t wearing the soccer mom button with her picture on it. She just saw Stacia when I walked in the room. I was stunned silent for a second because I’ve always been told they look just like their daddy.

Maybe I should check their ears.

The girls’ week at Camp Grandma’s is almost over. It should feel weird here, I guess, but I’m so busy doing the things I never have time for that I barely notice the quiet. I’ve gotten our bedroom fairly organized in preparation for the office transition. We have no spare bedrooms so baby is taking over the office. He’ll just have to deal with a corner of our bedroom. Of course, that means I can no longer just shut the door on his noise. It’s bad enough I can feel the bass vibrate my bathtub each night when he plays City of Heroes—now I won’t even have an insulated wall between us.

I also finished most of my baby shopping. The only thing left to buy is a crib mattress—seeing as how the old one is still being used on a toddler bed—and the bedding. After that it’s just clothes and diapers. For the rest of my natural life. Speaking of clothes, I also got most of Stacia’s school clothes bought. I discovered all of her skorts and shorts from the spring were still in great shape. Shirts she ruins with gusto, but the shorts seem to have survived. I took them to a few stores and bought some matching tops. I hate this time of year. She needs new school clothes because she destroyed all of last year’s, but I hate spending a lot of money. Because I’m cheap. And because she’ll just need all new clothes again when it cools.

School starts in one week, so it’s good I’m almost ready. Well, I’ve been ready for weeks, but now I almost have her ready too. Tonight I have to go to the Back to School Night. I promised I would go check the class list and see who she knew, since she couldn’t go herself. When I made the offer, I was thinking I’d just pop in and jot down the names I recognized. It occurred to me this morning that this could take a lot longer than I thought. I’m bound to run into everyone I haven’t seen all summer and spend a few minutes catching up with each of them. Such is life in a small town.

That’s all the time I have for catching up here. I’m sure I’ll be posting with more regularity once we get back to a daily schedule.

Brenia doesn’t like to wear pants or shorts anymore. She tells me she wants to wear dresses like “Rella.” I keep telling her if she wants to dress like a princess, she’ll have to learn to sit like one. Clearly, she doesn’t pay any attention to that.  I had to buy her 3 new sundresses because she kept wearing the same dress every day, even though it was dirty and there were plenty of other clothes to wear.

It seems a recent fan poll selected the Indiana Pacers as the best dressed in the NBA. A few years ago, I would have had to vehemently disagree. Those yellow uniforms—which occasionally still get pulled out on what can only be laundry night—were tacky as can be. The blue pinstriped jerseys rock, but it could be I’m partial. That’s the Miller jersey I have.

I need to get a new one before they retire his jersey. The one I have was my first ever—and, quite possibly, my most recent—Mother’s Day present 7 years ago. I’ve worn it to every game I’ve ever been to, and most of the ones I’ve watched from home. It’s starting to look a bit sad.

On another sad note, I’ve been trying to write a Reggie Miller retirement post for weeks, but I just can’t seem to get it right. It’s not that I don’t want him to go. I think he’s making the best decision for himself and the team. It’s just that Reggie created this team. Reggie invented the Pacer fan. Reggie made me an all out sports fan. I don’t know how to say goodbye. Not goodbye. See you soon. I have high hopes he’ll remain a part of the franchise in some way. He’s a Pacer through and through.

I had an ultrasound today. Turns out I’m not as far along as we thought—by 2 whole weeks. Nothing like stretching out the morning sickness.

I went to my cousin’s wedding this weekend. It was a lot of fun, though I didn’t have nearly as much fun as my sis! Let’s just say she had a little bit to drink and leave it at that.

Subway no longer carries their BBQ Chicken sandwich. I know this because I checked 6 different ones today on my way back to town. Someone needs to tell Baby to pick a new craving.

Hubby is still sick. With both of us feeling lousy, things are starting to pile up something fierce. He’s going to have to stay home from work just because there are no clean clothes in the house.

I’ve got no clothes, period. I should not need maternity clothes this early, which is why I had let my best friend borrow them. Even when I found out I was pregnant, I thought I’d be good until she delivered next month. Not so much.

The kids stayed with my parents. They’ll be back tomorrow night. Since I’ll get to sleep in tomorrow, I’m hoping I’ll feel up to posting something a little more coherent then.

How to Get Your Dad to Stop Speaking to You Indefinitely: Announce you spent your birthday at the tattoo parlor getting your nose pierced.

How to Get Your Dad to Start Speaking to You Again: Announce you are carrying his 3rd grandchild.

I did it! Can you believe I didn’t chicken out? I’m so afraid of needles and I have no pain tolerance whatsoever, but I wanted this so bad. Plus, hubby said he wasn’t letting me back in the car unless I had a nose ring. I picked a—surprise!—purple gemstone surrounded in white gold. I was afraid it was too big, but as hubby pointed out it’s still seriously tiny.

I also did these:

Happy birthday to me! I love it so much, I just can’t stop looking in the mirror. Spencer barely seems to notice. Stacia says I don’t look like me, but I think she’ll come around. Brenia thinks it’s pretty and wants one for herself. My parents? Pissed, pissed, pissed. Never mind that I’m 28 years old—which was pretty much the point.

Last week when I announced CBS plans to interview me, I actually made my dad proud for the first time since the time in high school when I brought home straight As just because he said I couldn’t. I’m back to being a disappointment again. All is right with the world once more.