To our surprise, Mike and the Moms (this is almost certainly my next band name) made it to California a day ahead of schedule. I roasted chickens and ignored my dirty kitchen and overall we all settled in well.
I also feel I am about to cross the pregnancy Rubicon: I need to buy maternity yoga pants. The Bradley class we attend wants us to squat. I cannot squat in maternity jeans. Well, I can, but not comfortably.
Yoga pants just feels like that final resignation, though. I am by no means a clothes horse, but I have my limits. And one of those limits is wearing workout clothes in public. I just…I don’t.
But having a kid is a chance to re-examine your “don’ts”. And it would be nice to go to class and not feel like I’m fighting the fabric of my jeans. And though many of my old sweats still fit — there are some benefits to having lost 70 pounds and then not throwing out your old hang-around-house clothes — they’re not…tremendously…flattering.
It’s a vanity thing. I know.
Meanwhile, here we are at 32 weeks. Girlfriend seems to sleep in the mornings before I head to work, but perks up when the food hits the umbilical, and then spends most of the day shifting and squirming and playing with the configuration settings on my bladder. I am curious to see if this translates into a squirmy baby. I guess we’ll find out soon enough.