Here I sit, almost 9:30 on the dot in my OB's office. I'm wearing an old sorority tank, size XXL so it nearly hits my knees and would do so if not for a 36 week baby belly, over which I have that fabulous pair of maternity leggings I found at Kohl's. I've not shaved my legs in a few days, and if I knew it wouldn't make things extremely awkward, I would totally be planning an apology to my doctor for it. My feet are comfy and not swollen, although my toenail polish is chipping slightly, and they're slipped into my favorite pair of Teva flip flops that I've worn nearly every day all summer. I've got a little bit of concealer, powder, and blush on, and my hair is in its signature "Kate Nicole bun," as my friends from high school called it. Here's a picture:
I look like a hungover sorority girl in her senior year of college, which is odd because I was one of those not too awful long ago, though I wasn't usually hungover. Not usually. Anyway, it's quite clear from the hair, the outfit, the lack of lipstick... I do not give a shit.
Sorry. I try to watch my language, as I know I have lots of conservative friends who read. I myself am quite conservative, though I do have a mouth on me once you get me going. But I am nearly 37 weeks pregnant, and I believe it's Miranda Lambert who said "My give-a-damn's busted." (Oh wait it was some other girl... Nevermind). But mine really is and has been since about... week 28 or 29. I run a brush through my hair a few times a week, but I've not plugged in my straightening or curling iron since June. I keep my face washed and moisturized but makeup? Shmakeup. I wear just enough to not look dead. My mom's like, "Honey, just dab on some lipstick. You need a little color." My wardrobe consists of maxi dresses, maxi skirts, and breezy knee length dresses. I wear these leggings with a Piko top or tunic sometimes. Don't get me wrong; I spruced up for my shower August 3rd, and now and then I'll have a day when I just tell myself You need to look pretty today! And it really does make me feel better to dress up a little! But the closer I get to having this baby, the more damns I'm running out of to give. But let me get to the point of this blog...
So I'm sitting here and in walks the brunette pregnant goddess Barbie, and today is the third appointment in a row in which we've met. Okay so we haven't actually "met," but we notice each other, smile, and she takes her seat not far from me. She's not hard to remember, but I kind of wonder if she remembers me. She's this perfect pregnant girl and I'm the girl she looks at, thinking to herself, Thank God I don't look like that girl! I look down at myself in shame because I know that's a really bad thought. And because I really do look like shit. She is wearing a short, mid-thigh length, flowy blue dress with a skinny brown belt perfectly situated between her adorable bump (she's at least as far along as I am) and perfect boobs (are those things even real?!). She is tan and glowing, quite literally. Her makeup is perfect (I know those eyelashes are not real) and her long, brown hair is styled in perfectly cascading waves. She's even wearing a cute little beaded headband, like totally hippie chic. I look down and this girl's feet are perfectly pedicured and situated inside a pair of gold wedges, we're talking at least four inches here. Anything with a heel higher than one inch has been foreign to me for about five months now.
In a single word, this girl is beautiful. She shows no sign of distress or worry as she tosses her hair over one shoulder and skims the pages of a month-old gossip magazine. Yep. This pregnant mama is feeling a little bit inferior.
But WHY?
I'll bet you anything she spent her first trimester vomiting her little heart out every morning, while I was often confined to a bed due to severe back pain. I'll bet she's experiencing some of the unusually odd and uncomfortable and totally awkward changes our bodies undergo as we prepare to have a baby. Just like I am. She's here to get poked and prodded and examined in the most personal way. Just like I am. She's growing a human and seems to be doing a pretty good job of it. Just. Like. I am. Although she looks freaking fabulous, I secretly hope she's gained like fifty pounds. I've got her beat there (I'm about 99% kidding).
I stopped comparing myself to others years ago when I realized it would get me nowhere and that my best motivation for being better, stronger, smarter is actually myself. And that applies to anything I have going on in my life. However, with this being the third time I've seen her, it's been difficult, as is understandable. In actuality though, this post is really not about her at all; it's everything to do with me. Here's what I know: it matters not how you get there as long as you never give up. Okay, we're usually not talking about pregnancy, but I think it can be applied here. In a few short weeks (or days), our beautiful little guy will be here. For nearly nine months I have lived my life accordingly and changed my lifestyle so that he can have a healthy one once he arrives. I've not gained a hundred pounds, and let's hope that doesn't change before he's here, and I've done a pretty swell job of preparing our household to be the safest, most loving environment for him. I'm sure this girl in my doctor's office has done the same. So what if I'm not in wedges? So what if I've not brushed my hair since Saturday morning? She looks gorgeous and should be proud. I look like I'm fifteen months pregnant and should be proud. There are millions of women out there who would love to have swollen feet, aching backs, uncomfortable examinations if it means having a baby. We're both growing healthy babies and should be proud and grateful. For me, that's all I'm focusing on right now.
Maybe I'll see her again this coming Tuesday or perhaps at our six week postnatal appointment, where I will be in that office like....
Either way, I hope all goes well for her. Not only does she look great, she inspired what turned out to be a pretty thoughtful blog. That's what I love about writing--the more I do it, the more I learn about myself-- and the more I learn to love myself.
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