Growth

Lately, everything has been growing, it feels... both the baby and myself.

I went to the closet the other day, searching for one of my three pairs of nice high heels. I only rarely wear high heels, because I've never managed to find a comfortable pair (which may have less to do with high heels themselves and more to do with the pains of SLE), but on days when I feel like I need a confidence and self-image boost, I reach for the high heels.

Image my annoyance when I found myself the evil stepsister, struggling to squeeze my gargantuan foot into the slipper meant for a princess.

So, I bagged up the majority of my shoes to give to Goodwill. Someone else out there can enjoy my worn-five-times high heels. I suppose I'll have to start rebuilding my shoe collection slooowly. I don't relish the idea - I'm not much of a shopper, and doubly so when I have a three-month-old baby riding on my chest.

I believe that all maternity books should finish with a special chapter on post-partum wardrobe issues. Bigger feet mean your shoes are out the door. The postpartum pudge on your stomach means that even if your jeans still fit your bottom and thighs, you're going to either have to wear maternity jeans for six months or invest in the next size up in jeans and have them hang like a tent. Breastfeeding means that all the shirts that used to hang to the tops of your jeans are now riding up like croptops, showing those wonderful maternity pants and the post-partum pudge off to the world at large.

Why is it the baby's growth is adorable and wonderful, while mine just leads me to contemplate if I can eat an entire gallon of ice cream by myself without being sick?