One of my mild worries about going through the whole pregancy/childbirth/breastfeeding cycle again was that I was going to backslide into living in the town of Frumpville again.
Now, I don't regret my days there, as when you have lots of little people with lots of very intense needs, anything beyond basic grooming and just getting dressed and showered in the morning is gravy.
But I've had a good four years of indulging in a higher level of self-care, including eating very well -- and dressing well (for me). And that has been nice, too. I'm a lot healthier, and my husband is happier.
Since I have teenagers, though, even once the baby is here, I probably won't be able to slack on the self-care as much as I had in the past. At least, not without getting a bunch of crap.
The other day, late for the doctor, I needed to find something that a) fit and b) was clean. So, I dug into a bag of my hand-me-down maternity clothes, many of which I haven't worn -- for size or style issues.
I found a big, longish, sleeveless jumper-type dress, which I threw on over a shirt. I knew it wasn't a particularly great outfit, but -- heck -- how much do I really care at this point?
When I got home, my 13-year-old told me I looked just like a pregnant Michelle Duggar. Now, I think Michelle Duggar is sweet, but she's no fashionista. She has modesty standards that far exceed mine.
So, clearly, when I visit Frumpville from now on, I am going to hear about it. I have Fashion Police now.
2 days ago