Once again, I found myself this afternoon in Motherhood Maternity handing over my debit card for some severely overpriced maternity pants.

They’re cheaply made. And it’s not the lighting in the dressing room. The pants are quite magical, in that they take away what little shred of attractiveness I hope I have left the instant I put them on.

I pull the stretchy waist band all the way up and grimace. These are formally known as the Secret Fit Belly pants. I’m assuming it’s because it’s a secret how they manage to not fit anyone very well. Or maybe because women feel more attractive when they wear something with the name “secret” in it.

I pull back the dressing room curtain and gingerly step around the pile of crushed goldfish crackers on the floor (MM dressing rooms resemble the floors of minivans). I look up and see a life size picture of a smiling pregnant woman. I wonder if she would still be smiling if she lost her bellybutton. I lost mine the other day.

After I left there in a huff, I drove all over the outdoor shopping mall in Southaven trying to find non-maternity-maternity clothes. I finally ended up at a store that I can’t remember the name of, but it had cute stuff, so I was able to buy a tunic. I was explaining my plight to the store clerk when she asked me, “How old ARE you?!” Sigh. That’s what I get for not wearing eyeliner when I go shopping. I am old enough to have a child, thank you very much. I drive a sedan for crying out loud.

Husband had the phenomenal timing of calling me on my way home. He’s on trauma call…bless his heart, he was trying to get a break from the horrors of work and instead was stuck on the phone for ten minutes while his hormonal pregnant wife verbally strangled every maternity store and impertinent clerk in a ten mile radius. He was probably thanking his lucky stars when a call came in for a transfer and he left me on the phone with, “Hey, hun… I gotta go… I love you. It’s going to be…ok…I gotta go…. I love you…” Just insert my cranky voice in all the pauses.

On to more positive things. Husband and I had a gender reveal party last Saturday at his mom and stepdad’s house. It was a huge blessing to be able to find out that we’ll be meeting Gracie in June, especially since I couldn’t tell my parents I was pregnant in person (instead it was via facetime). Husband and I were both convinced that we were having a boy, so cutting into the cupcake and seeing pink icing threw us for a loop. He’s been talking to my stomach for the past month calling her Henry, so he’s got some ground to make up so she won’t be confused. My initial reaction involved words like “hormones” “dating” “high school drama” and “paying for a wedding”. We’re excited (no, really, we are… Husband is going to be completely devoted to Gracie, and I have an excuse to buy twice as many shoes from here on out). My only worry is that she’ll end up with my lack of hair (bald until 2) and Husband’s dark eyebrows when she’s born. We’ll have a female groucho marx until she’s a toddler.