to wearing my husband’s pajama pants.
23w4d
Last night, I got home and changed into my yoga pants. Although I could fit it through my round posterior, I felt a tightness around the front so I did what any sensible pregnant woman in denial would do. I pushed them down under my butt and put on a big sleep shirt.
I spent the night walking like a geisha/penguin. The dogs didn’t seem to mind.
Then my husband came home and I had to confess that I was walking funny because my pants didn’t fit anymore.
“Why don’t you wear the maternity sweat pants you bought?”
Pg: “Because that would be too logical. No, I only have one pair and they are in the hamper. I can’t eat anything without spilling something on me nowadays.”
“Here.”
My husband lent me his soft cushy blue pajama pants. Unbeknownst to him, these pants have become property of Pregasaurus until after the I lose the baby fat. They will placed safely under lock and key until such time.
Once I put them on, I could have done cartwheels. It was ridiculous how happy I was. It made me walking around with my butt hanging out of my pants seem absurd. I know. I know. I can say this in retrospect. I swear it made sense when I did it.
Of course, I’m happy as a clam and have proclaimed to the world how my husband’s pants rock. That’s when the bubble burster comes in, “Wait until they don’t fit anymore.”
I hadn’t thought of that. What if I get so big I outgrow my husband? No more comfy sleep shirts. No more comfy sweat pants. It’s bad enough my turtlenecks now look like midriff tops. My turtlenecks were the last articles of ‘normal’ clothing I didn’t pack away. My entire closet now is filled with maternity clothes. Oh and I also have to buy a spring jacket as I sadly came to the conclusion Saturday that my raincoat was not going to function as a raincoat if I left it opened or just used the waist tie.
I’m not going to think about it too much. I’m just going to live in my husband’s pants for as long as I can and cross the OMG-I’m-bigger-than-my-husband bridge when/if I get there.
