minalisms

I had a liberating experience this past weekend –  I bought clothes that fit.

I’m in the second half of my pregnancy and I was still putting off the purchase of maternity clothes until recently, telling myself that I could do without for a little longer and to continue with the rubber-band-through-the-button-loop technique for my pants.

Quite simply, I was behaving like a moron.

The second I pulled on the pants in the dressing room of a maternity store, feeling the stretchy waistband hug – not suffocate – my belly, I did my happy dance. Booty shakin’. Arms pumping. Head bobbing. All of this and there wasn’t even music involved.

When that was over, I threw back the curtain of the dressing room and walked out to my waiting husband. He noticed the goofy smile on my face and even goofier back-and-forth march I did for him. And when no one was looking, I flashed him my belly – pronounced but content under a swath of black elastic.

This is the best thing ever!” I exclaimed, maybe a bit too loud.

So I bought two more pants, a pair of jeans and three blouses, all of which look ridiculously adorable on me. (Yeah, I said it.)

I don’t care that it’d qualify as a fashion faux pas to the Nth degree, but I plan to rock my maternity pants for a very … very … long time.

Even though there is little, if any, evidence of baby preparation around my house, I’ve been working every day on preparing mentally for July 12 (aka Due Date) and thereafter.

I make to-do lists. I read my pregnancy book. I pore over ratings on cribs, car seats and carriers. I think constantly about my diet and worry about nourishing the little man inside, wonder whether he’ll latch on to my boob when the time comes and if I’ll have the time and energy to make most of his baby food from scratch.

My network of moms and dads have told me that one can never truly prepare for the arrival of a child. “You just learn as you go,” they say. And that makes sense, but, good God, that means I have to pay close attention. At all times. Even when I’m bored, or unmotivated, or sleep-deprived and crabby.

Which brings me to the following conclusion: This kid — he’s going to be one charismatic dude, even more so than his father, who from Day 1 re-ignited my creativity, perseverance and optimism for a happy ending.

For those who haven’t heard the news yet: I’m pregnant. If all goes as planned, my baby boy will be born in mid-July, which puts me at right about the midpoint of my pregnancy.

I’ve been nudged by several friends and relatives throughout the past few months to blog about this news. But one of the reasons I haven’t is that it’s not simple describing what I classify as indescribable. How can you define something that’s so many things, often different things, to so many people? Like love.

Ben and I haven’t made any noticeable preparations for Baby yet. I’m still putting off all purchases of maternity clothes, and the soon-to-be nursery is still an office without order. Four-and-a-half months until labor pains and I already feel like a bad parent. I think I’m catching on.

There are reminders throughout the day: I am going to be a mom. Ben is going to be a dad. We are going to be responsible for the life of a tiny human being.

And that’s when I fall back to square one, where no words justify the emotion behind those statements.