Home-baby is 23 weeks baked, roughly the size of a high five, and stupidly fun to buy itty-bitty clothes for.
My train of thought at every garage sale we’ve gone to is like:
- OK, but will he able to be a cozy little bear-looking thing in that snowsuit NEXT winter?
- counting in head, again, for how many months old little dude will be in (insert specific season for which I’ve found something life-endingly cute here)
- Do babies even LIKE pants? Should I even be GETTING him pants?
- Will he seriously fit into this? Do actual tiny humans REALLY fit into THIS?
- … nope, now is definitely not the time to ponder the logistics of birth
- OH MY GOD LOOK AT THE TINY OVERALLS, LOOK AT THEM
- I know everyone says these baby sacks are really awesome, but, like… won’t that be cold? I’d be cold
- Probably we should buy this Halloween costume and just pretend it’s a winter jacket because who wouldn’t want to be a tiny dinosaur?
- OH MY GOD LOOK AT THE TINY CARDIGAN, LOOK AT IT
In addition to shopping for the tiny human, my boobs have also necessitated an entire shopping trip exclusively in their honor.
It was like… one day, I had regular boobs, and all my regular-boob bras still fit (with the addition of bra extenders, which… hello, tiny bra Jesuses, YOU DOTH PROVIDE), and there was some seriously strong cleavage game going on—
and then I wake up one day with the heaving chest of a maiden in a romance novel and WHAT ARE THESE EVEN AND WHY HAVE I BEEN CHOSEN FOR THIS RESPONSIBILITY
The second trimester is when shit starts to get real, y’all.
I made my first foray into the stretchy world of belly bands, which, for the uninitiated, is essentially like trying to wrangle yourself into a slightly constrictive fabric hula-hoop from hell.
The main idea with a band is, yay, you can wear your regular jeans! (except fully unbuttoned & unzipped, like a fabulous savage), but you have to wrangle the band just right to cover the area from where your waistband starts to where the zipper ends.
Essentially, when all is said and done, it just looks like your tank-top layering game is on point.
This all sounds fabulous and easy and HOORAY WE LIVE IN A TIME OF MUCH INNOVATION, until you realize that this band winds up covering pretty much all of your butt once you’ve got it in place.
(Clearly I need lessons from homegirl who models for Target, because HOW. I basically have my butt in a hammock, and she’s all serene & chill with her artful folding and angles and DOES SHE EVEN MOVE WHAT IS YOUR LIFE)
I want to have my pants not fall down, but also, I want the option to use my back pockets.
I AM AN ADULT.
And really, it’s not that I even DO use my back pockets most of the time anyway, but you know that thing where you can’t do something and that automatically makes you want to do it more than you ever would’ve wanted to normally?
Clearly, pants and I are going to have some reck-on-INGS once maxi skirt season is over.
With the six-month mark coming up next week (!!), this month is all about OKAY BUT NOW WE HAVE TO ACTUALLY ACT LIKE THE KID IS COMING IN REAL LIFE.
Our spare room downstairs is currently this immense explosion of tiny, adorable clothes and passed-down baby gear (the crib & mattress, an epic Pack and Play, a baby bath, this super-rad bouncy thing that mounts in a doorway for the baby to prance in, a glider/rocker) and I’m finally at the point where THIS SIMPLY DOTH NOT FLY.
I must wash the tiny ampersand onesie & tuck it into a dresser drawer.
I need to put the little-dude-sized cowboy boots into his closet.
It’s dire that I order this poster to go on one of his walls, then find an appropriately superb frame for it.
We’ve got to paint the baby’s dresser & find new hardware for all the drawers.
AND AND AND FLAIL FLAIL AND AND AND
there are baby kicks to savor.
There’s a high-five-sized human growing little eyebrows, and listening to Pink Floyd with me, and having tiny baby-feet dance parties starting at 10 p.m. every night.
There’s an itty baby in there who already knows the sound of his daddy’s voice, and who starts kicking around extra excitedly when he hears it for the first time after he hasn’t all day.
There’s these last brilliant-beautiful weeks of “before”, where it’s just us, and the Faces, and the puppers, and our life just as we’ve always known it.
There’s a thousand little different firsts to experience between now and December, and I have to be where my feet are—
now, here, and nowhere else—
to experience them.
And I owe it to myself, and to this tiny high-five, to do exactly that.