Let’s face it: ever since the bump began to appear, I’ve been unfriendly towards any pants that weren’t made of flannel and clearly destined never to be seen outside of my home. Said pants have been equally hostile towards me. Oh sure, the “use an elastic hairband” trick stretched the life of my favourite jeans for a little while, followed by the “just leave everything undone and wear a long tube top to hide it” trick, but today I finally was forced to do the unthinkable: pull the BELLY POUCH pants out of my maternity clothing box.
The maternity clothing box in question is tucked into the far back corner of my closet where I do not have to ponder its existence. My cute maternity clothing has usurped the space in my dresser that was once reserved for stuff I shouldn’t have been wearing because it was too small anyhow. But the maternity box? It’s full of things that were (generously) donated to me by a friend in Vancouver and her friend who recently had a baby, and if it were summer, they’d be wonderful things. Or if I had a job where I needed to get dressed up. But since it’s winter and I’m unemployed, most of the items in there are not getting much love.
And then there are the belly pouch pants. These things are an affront to all concepts of fashion that have existed post, oh, Fresh Prince of Bel-Air years. Let’s talk a light, faded rocky blue. Let’s talk TAPERED LEGS. Tapered legs? WTF? I haven’t worn those in a long time, and I was reminded of why when I put these pants on: they’re horrible for my shape, and it feels like I have fucking shackles around my ankles. SHACKLES, people. Like it’s not bad enough I’m carrying a ball for a belly, now I get to feel chained to my ankles.
Now, speaking positively, the belly pouch itself? Not actually such a bad idea. I was vaguely impressed that it didn’t feel totally constricting, just incredibly … soccer mom. Also, when Chris came home and tried to put his COLD HANDS up my shirt and on my belly like he does (I guess he likes to make me squirm), the pouch protected me. That was nice.
A package from my mom waited at the post office, so I sulkily followed Chris out to the car, despairing over the fact that I could see the tongues of my sneakers as the Cuffs of Death strangled my ankles. I prayed no one would see me. I refused to get out of the car and made him go in to pick up the package. And you know what the customs label on the package said? “CONTENTS: 1 BLOUSE 1 JEANS”
SWEET BABY JEBUS, MY MOMMY IS A LIFE SAVER. And not the fruity round type, but the genuine “thank you for erasing all my despair and giving me a reason to live again” type. Although I like both. When I took these jeans out of the box, I told Chris, “My mommy loves me more than anyone in the world,” and he didn’t argue, because these jeans are gorgeous, fashionable, straight-legged, DARK WASHED, with a long “magic belly band” at the top and not a belly pouch.
I tried them and the blouse on. Chris promptly grabbed my butt and told me I looked goooOOOoood, and I sure as heck felt better about maternity clothing in general. I made him tell me like fourteen times how wonderful and beautiful his cute, curvy, pregnant wife is. Then, for good measure, when I tucked him into bed I asked, “Wasn’t that package from my mother wonderful?” and he confirmed that yes, indeed, it was.
Now I have pants I can actually wear and be happy in!