Mastering the art of self-humiliation

This is a post from my sister: Anne.
infinitySo I have this pair of pants. (Okay, they’re capris, but who cares.) Wearing these capris is pretty damn close to wearing a cloud. They’re comfortable in all the right places and smooth as a baby’s bum from being washed so many times. They’re beige and are just starting to show their age; there’s a bleach spot on the cuff of the left leg and one of the pockets is ripped at the corner, but they’re great to bum around in.

They’re maternity.

I found them when I was pregnant with Julia, tucked away on a crowded clearance rack at a maternity clothing store. They didn’t look like maternity pants and I was pleasantly surprised when I tried them on and found they made me look good, which was a hard look to achieve because I looked like a manatee while pregnant with her. I broke them in so well that when I packed up my maternity stuff I left them out so I could wear them around the house. Seems I never put them away after I had Oliver, either.

I’ll admit it: I still wear them now and then. I’ll pull them on in the morning when I’m half-asleep and fumbling for something to wear or when I come home from being out with the kids and am itching to get into something more comfortable. However, aside from the odd trip to the corner store, they’re an ‘at home’ pair.

They weren’t last Thursday. Ahem.

We’d been out all morning running errands and by the time we got home I was tired of wearing a skirt so I put on my like-wearing-a-cloud capris and carried on with house cleaning, laundry doing, bottle-making and dish washing. Dave was a bit late getting home, leaving me little time to spruce up before I headed out to my consultation with the dentist. I was halfway there before I realized that I’d forgotten to change back into my skirt and was still wearing the capris. Crap!

Oh well, I reassured myself. Nobody will know they’re maternity but me.

After a lengthy question and answer period with Lori, a hygienist who I’ve become quite comfortable with after ten years of having her scrape my teeth, I made the decision to go ahead and get a porcelain veneer put on my front tooth. Our conversation then swiftly shifted to the cost; since the procedure’s considered cosmetic it’s not covered by my insurance company.

It’s gonna run me almost a grand. Nine hundred and twenty dollars, to be exact.

Ouch. That smarts.

Lori was sympathetic. “It’s a lot, I know,” she said. “I can’t remember, are you working or are you at home with the kids?”

I told her I was doing the daddy gig full-time. She sighed and made a comment about it being difficult to raise two kids on one income but that somehow, parents just manage to make due.

“It is hard, definitely,” I agreed, “but you’re right. We just have to make due. Diapers and formula are the worst, but we’ve gotten away with using a lot of stuff from when Julia was a baby. More often than not, it’s Dave and I who go without so our kids can have more.”

She smiled. “That’s usually how it is,” she said. She told me that she and her husband had been considering moving to a newer home but decided once they found out their daughter was going to college in the fall to stay put and slowly renovate instead, so they could help her more financially.

“You know, as long as I have a nice purse and painted toenails, I’m happy,” I laughed. “I don’t buy much brand-name clothing anymore – I just can’t afford it, you know? My clothes last me a lot longer now than they ever did before…heck, these are maternity pants!” I blurted out.

I froze. Oh God. Did I just say that out loud?

 

 


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