Let’s be honest – maternity clothes are darling. Until I have to wear them, & then some black hole sucks all the cute & I’m stuck wearing cheap fabric draped like a tent over swollen ankles.

My maternity style back in 2009 was terrible; I’m not going to make any excuses for it or claim that I am a reformed now-fashionista, but I did learn valuable lessons to carry into my next pregnancy:

1) Embrace leggings. Being a tall gal (5’10″) I ran into a BIG problem in the third trimester – the dresses that properly covered me in the second trimester now rode high on my belly & exposed…well, everything. So I purchased capri leggings to wear under my work dresses, & unfortunately this was long before leggings became cute fashion staples.

2) Invest in good clothes that I love. There are two types of maternity-wearers – those that refuse to spend money since it’s a short “season” of clothing, & those that view it as a fashion opportunity. I fell under the first group & rocked many shapeless shirts I found on the $5.99 clearance rack. By the end of the pregnancy, I splurged for good pieces that fit my new body & I felt much prettier.

3) Rock the elastic. I want to find out who decided that pants should have buttons & zippers instead of elastic…& punch them in the face. Elastic is comfy & I have decided to start a petition for all pants & skirts to be made with elastic from here on out. I was in maternity pants around 5 weeks pregnant with Harrison & wore them until 12 weeks postpartum.

4) Play up the accessories. This past year, I’ve really worked on putting scarves & cardigans & cute shoes into my closet to complement more “plain” pieces, like basic t-shirts, jeans, and black shift dresses. I think it would be smart to create a maternity wardrobe with a few classic, quality pieces & build the fun & color with the accessories.

Do you “toss in the towel” with maternity clothes & figure it’s 6 months of frump? Or do you invest in good pieces? Or were you like me & you’ve changed your mind after pregnancy?

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When I think back on the last week of my pregnancy, I remember being very pregnant.  Swollen ankles to match a swollen belly & anticipation that flowed through the core of my being. None of my clothes fit anymore, only the maternity leggings & jeans I bought last-minute with a few T-shirts. I began wearing them to the office without even asking permission, but at almost two weeks overdue, I think they knew better than to argue.

All of my paperwork & clients were settled anyway – me sitting behind my desk was like a lame duck president, simply waiting for the term to end.

Every night, I came home with exhausted hips & feet but by the end of the night, after dishes were tucked back into cabinets & a cup of tea brewed, I found myself sitting in the nursery. I sat with only a lamp on in the glider, hand on my belly & full of wonder. I wondered who this little baby would be & who I would become as a mother. I worried that I did not have enough diapers or enough clothes or enough bottles or that I would simply not be enough. Sometimes I straightened the little outfits in the closet for the 500th time, but mostly I sat & rocked. I sang lullabies, practicing for future 3am wake-up calls. I dreamed of little toes & Little League, of a lifetime ahead.

Sometimes my husband peeked in on me with a smile, that indulgent smile that I always returned because we made this miracle & this life. It embarrassed me a little, to be found lost in thought, since earlier that day he had caught me standing on the coffee table vacuuming the ceiling. Or scrubbing the bathtub while I was showering. Or checking my hospital bag once more.

I did a lot of those nesting tasks on repeat as I waited for labor. The labor that never came on its own. That infuriating, magical week where every moment was the longest pause of my life & every twinge was the possible beginning of something new.

Find more posts from bloggers sharing their experiences of motherhood on the Huggies page on BlogHer.com.

This is where I draw the line. I am proud of my belly stretchies. I can deal with the ones on my knees & calves. BUT I DRAW THE LINE AT FEET.

fwiw, my foot looks AWESOME in this picture after hoisting it above my heart for 3 hours while we watched Goonies. It’s amazing how my perspective of what constitutes “awesome” has changed in the past few weeks.

These are her disciples.

I wanted a baked potato & salad for lunch, but realized I couldn’t hold the fork. So I got a sandwich.

I want to cry.

Any ideas on relieving the pain?

I should take a picture. I have pitting edema in my index finger & my wrist bones have taken a vacation…I think they’re in St. Lucia, sipping martinis at the Sandals Halcyon.

Right? I believe that’s the protocol, correct? Oh, and the ever-fantastic “Save up on sleep now, BECAUSE THE ONLY REM YOU WILL VISIT IN THE NEXT 50 YEARS IS MUDDLING THROUGH LOSING MY RELIGION ON YOUR WAY TO DAYCARE DROP-OFF.”

With the typical cliches out of the way, I would like to inform you that I have officially entered the first stage of being really effing uncomfortable. Yes, it required the F-dash-dash-dash word to really convey my misery. My back aches. My feet are swollen to the point that they might self-combust at any given moment. I haven’t seen my ankles in over 2 months. I have baby feet in my far right ribs, my uterus pushes on my lungs like Heidi Klum’s wonder bra to where I am gasping for breath by the 3rd stair, & I am pretty sure that a wee leprechaun with a tiny hammer is slowly chipping away at my hip bones. Did I mention the dragon eroding my esophagus? Because Zantac 75 is a joke. My heartburn MOCKS YOU, Zantac. Mocks you, with two middle fingers up in the air, telling you to sit & twist on your “new & improved” formula.

Oh, & I won’t even effing mention Rosie & her new lesbian lover:

(notice how Tuck decided to stick her slim foot in there? Bitch always has to show me up)

But my hips. Oh, sweet baby Jesus in a manger of hay, MY HIPS. I blame my OB for throwing it out to the universe, for I had been relatively pain free until she said, “Oh, by the way, you’ll probably start noticing hip pain as your ligaments loosen in preparation for delivery.” & I swear, it was not mind games, but my hips started aching the moment I leaped off the exam table. OBSTETRICIAN VOODOO. & in the past few weeks, it’s become excruciating. Two hours on my feet for an appointment? I’m in full waddle, just trying to make it without my hips literally buckling under me in refusal to work. I’m going to begin calling them Boxer, thanks to my man George Orwell. Overworked, under-appreciated, & being sent to slaughter by my own little oinker, aka Harrison. Walking aches. Bending aches. Existing aches. & to get out of bed, I beg Nate to pull me since my hips have no ability to function properly on their own.

In short? I’m miserable.

& at the same time, so weirdly happy that I can hardly stand myself. I feel like I could bottle these hormones & sell them on the Black Market with profit to the point that Nate & I could buy Johnny Depp’s island & live there with servants & a few chickens. Or I wish I could make my physical self feel as awesome as my emotional self. I love being pregnant. Which is a weird thing to say, considering the 5-minute diatribe that compares my body to the book Animal Farm, but I truly, truly adore being pregnant. I am in no rush for this to be over. You know how some pregnant women say that they “can’t wait” to meet their daughter or son? I don’t feel that way. Don’t get me wrong — I’m pumped to have an outside baby at some point. But I’m treasuring nights like tonight, where I can practically hear the pages turn in Nate’s book as he reads 2 rooms away. I feel like I’m starting to know Harrison’s personality & it feels like our sweet little secret, instead of something the entire world can see.

& for now, despite the necessary need for hip replacements in the coming years, I love this stage of life we’re in together.

Only a true friend could say this to me, make me laugh so hard I almost peed myself for 5 minutes, then live to tell the tale. With a heat index of 101 degrees, it was most DEFINITELY sweat, not a beautiful motherly glow.

& the dress I was wearing? Consistent with cheap maternity clothing that is all the rage, it was double-thick 100% polyester, cloying to my back fat by 10am. But apparently I rock cheap fabric amazingly well, because I received about 20 different compliments on it.

She has arrived just in time to celebrate the final two months until Harrison’s arrival!

Regardless, Nate & I are off to Charleston for four days to celebrate a) three years of wedded bliss b) the kid I’m currently incubating and c) my swollen left ankle.

Because that shiz is IMPRESSIVE. That’s 9:30am, folks. I seriously might cry because you could GO SWIMMING IN MY ANKLE there is so much fluid. Compression hosiery, here I come…because nothing says “sexy” like dressing like your Grandma Doris.

& I need a good nickname for my ankle. Start brainstorming, although “THE BEAST” is the front-runner in my mind.

Random side note: Really, the Gestational Diabetes test with the 100% KoolAid proof syrup really isn’t that terrible. I chugged far worse things in college, including the contents of a cooler that had fruit at the bottom. Thankfully, I don’t remember much of the experience except sitting in a chair singing “Magic Carpet Ride” while the Lambda Chi’s hoisted me over their heads in a circle.

Right. ::side-eye::

Sadly, the after-shock of the GD test wasn’t quite as memorable, minus general queasiness & the shakes that come with a lethal injection of sugar into your blood stream. So far, no news is good news & I assume I passed the test.

Y’all have a WONDERFUL weekend…I shall return with lovely pictures of my left ankle touring the Battery & Fort Sumpter (woot, history buffs unite!) on Sunday. smoochies.

Right on my ass. Vertical. On each cheek, to balance out the universe.

I shall call the ones on the left side The Jonas Brothers & the ones on the right…The Backstreet Boys.

oh, yes.