ChicCritique

I am 26 weeks along, with hopefully 10-11-12-ish weeks left of this pregnancy, and:

• It hurts to lay down.  My back was DYING 15 minutes into my hour-long ultrasound yesterday.  I no longer look forward to going to bed because I am SO uncomfortable and get no sleep.  I am exhausted.
• It hurts to stand, so badly.  My pelvis is doing battle with the pressure caused by my tummy - and losing.
• It hurts, less, but it still hurts, to sit.  My back again - day-um…

I’m more than a little bitter to not feeling like the super-happy-glowing-pregnant girl that everyone seems to think I am.

I feel like a decrepit, slow-moving, achy, slab of old lady.

Oh, and I’d like to give a shoutout to my (Sedu) flat iron: without you and my fancy handling tactics, the haircut I got yesterday would be even worse.  To my hair, I apologize for letting Joe, my (ex?) not-gay-male-stylist, round brush you into a Mom-Hot-Mess.

I’ve always been a girls’ girl - lots of girlfriends, lots of girliness, lots of fun…

In high school, I ended up super close with a girl who wanted to be my friend, but initially struck me as odd.  She grew on me (even though my first impression was definitely not totally off) and we were inseprable.  Her oddness became fun and her awkwardness was amusing to us both, but lots of our peers had a harder time getting her.  I stuck up for her, picked loyalty over popularity, and never regretted it.  We added a third and a fourth to our group, and my boyfriend and his friends tagged along.  I made it clear to the boyfriend that my friends came before him.

We went to college together and my best friend took only a few weeks to break up with me.  I was so hurt.  I was confused.  I felt like we’d grown so much together - she’d grown so much more confident and was less of a loner.  I was bitter because I felt like she’d leached parts of me and used them to become a different person.

I made new friends in college.  But I still had that boyfriend, who became more important to me as my friends left me to fare for myself.  I was kind of scared to become so invested in friendships with girls again, since mine had ended up being so fickle.  Because of this, my new friendships were never deep.  I wasn’t myself, less confident, more aware of my differences from the other girls.  I had my boyfriend to fall back on, and he was so much easier than building new relationships would be.

I got my feelings hurt by my new friends (even though they’re great and have been wonderful friends to each other), being so much more sensitive than I was before, being so much more attuned to exclusion.

I graduated.

I broke up with the boyfriend, over something fairly petty.  He was my high school sweetheart, my college boyfriend, my first love.  But I knew it wasn’t right (the light cheating I did in college should have been a clue).  I felt like I’d never be whole again.

I met guys like I made girlfriends: quickly, shallowly - it was fun for a while.

And then I met P, which changed everything.  Our relationship isn’t perfect, but it’s perfect for me.

I still felt like something was missing.  Who to call if we were fighting (not my sister or mom - I’d hate for them to get a bad impression of P)?  With whom could I talk fashion?  Trashy TV?  Shop with (even though P is a pretty fab partner here)?

I started hanging out with a coworker, who asked me to be the maid of honor in her wedding.  I declined, and she asked me to stand up as a bridesmaid.  Through the wedding process, I met her friends.  And they’re wonderful.  We click.  We chat.  We have couples get-togethers because all of their guys and P get along as well.

I’ve missed this.

I’ve been reluctant to fully adopt them though, always leery of friend-poaching, so they adopted me.  The time and effort they put into this group and into the friendships was overwhelming at first, but I realized that I was used to doing my own thing. 

I’ve seen each of them get married; I was a bridesmaid for two, even; I’m going through my pregnancy alongside one of them.  Although they’re all coming to the baby shower my family is throwing, these girls are throwing me another shower (despite my hesitation - I get so anxious before things like this…).

And now, everything seems better.  P is still the most fun person in the world to me - my #1 choice for partner in just about everything - but it’s nice to have such great girls - women - to be able to count on again.

After months and months of searching, I’ve finally found fabrics for the babies’ cribs.  I know it’s dramatic, but these are the things keeping me awake at night…

To marry the our these inspirations:

^ our crib(s) ^

^ crib sheet atop clean-lined skirt, as we’ll do ^

- and -

^ colors, striped ceiling, and black/chalkboard wall, ganked ^

Our crib sheet fabric:

And our crib skirt fabric:

Next up, PAINT!

Oh…and learning how to use my sewing machine, I suppose…

If only these shoes were available two years ago!

-Which is not to say I didn’t LOVE mine.  I did love them, but was sad to settle for a (Christian Dior!) (on super deal of the century!) (regularly $850!) too-pale pair with an ankle strap.

On second thought, those are pretty freaking fab - If I can manage to fit my (enormous) belly into my silvery grey silk wrap dress for a friend’s wedding in November (doubtful), I may just have to bust those bad boys out!

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to get remarried (to the same guy, obv) every year - so. much. FUN.

I am utterly over this maternity dressing thing.

I miss being “little in the middle.”

I feel like I’m back in 2003/4/5 with all these bootcut jeans/empire waisted tops which seem to be my only options most of the time.

I am trying to own my “glow,” and work the bump, but it is ROUGH - after a long day at work, by which time my ankles are swollen and my back is killing me.

I am *stressed* -Spending my nights hunting for the perfect (mod-ish, bold, yellow and white) fabric for the babies’ cribs (the starting point for their rooms) AND hunting for something not trolly to wear to my shower (all-eyes-on-me-occasions make me anxious).  If my options weren’t SO limited in terms of the latter, the former might be more bearable.

I’ve also been…

if I’m being honest…

even though it grosses me out…

and makes me feel like I’ve given up…

I’ve been wearing flats almost exclusively.

On 9.11.01, I awoke while my new roommate, Megan, was prepping for her early class.

I was thankful not to have my first class that day (a Thursday?) until 11:00 (Middle Eastern History).  I did not want to be awake, and was considering not leaving our room for the day.

On 9.11.00, my Grandpa died unexpectedly.  I was a senior in high school, supposed to be working at Gap after school, so I was wearing my Gap khakis, a bright melon-colored Gap top, and a black, non-Gap cardigan.  My dad was at home, still recovering from his first round of chemotherapy after we’d found that his testicular cancer had spread to the lymphnodes, even after the tumor was removed a year before.  I was called from my classroom and reported to the office, to find that my mother had called; there was a “family emergency.”  She was on her way; my dad was okay, she made sure to say.  My sister, a junior, met me in the office and I relayed the message.  She was relieved, thinking that *maybe* our mom had decided to become cool after 17 years of being a stickler, and let us play hookie for the day.  I pointed out that if it wasn’t our dad, then Grandpa, who was in the hospital, not doing too well after elective hernia surgery.  We soon learned that our Grandpa would die that day, after all the grandkids were gathered to say goodbyes.

A year later, I was away from my family for the first time, a freshman in college, and trying my best to handle grieving for my first time.

Megan was beginning to annoy me, watching tv while I was attempting to sleep through the sadness.  I flippeded over and asked her to turn the volume down.

I will never forget the look on Megan’s face, brown eyes wider than wide, as she said, “Something’s happening…” and trailed off, trying to describe the first plane flying into the World Trade Center.

Over her shoulder, I saw the second plane hit the second tower.  I told her, and she was confused, “no…only one plane…” as turned around.

Within seconds, my pain on 9.11 became shared sadness with the rest of the country.

I think about all of these things each year, the toughest time of year for me.

Today marks the tenth anniversary of my Grandpa’s death, and I miss him so.  I am proud, though, that my babies will grow up, hearing stories about Joe Lazzaro, 5’6” of Italian attitude, and the toughest guy around.  He, just like America, was so much more than the defining events of 9.11.