Yesterday, as I walked out of the house, I asked both my mom and Nick to assess my outfit. They know I've been having trouble finding clothes that look right lately, clothes that fit both my post-pregnancy body and my new station as a working mom breastfeeding an infant. So perhaps they were inclined to be generous. Both gave me the thumbs-up. Maybe it was an absent-minded thumbs-up, but it was a thumbs-up nonetheless. I moved forward.
When we were out, I found myself fidgeting and feeling uncomfortable. Even though I'm reaching the 9-months-out point of post-partum, I'm still not at my pre-pregnancy weight, so while certain pre-preg clothes fit, they still don't fit right. The skirt I had on was a perfect example--just a tad too tight in certain places, which made it fall all wrong. After catching sight of myself in one too many mirrors, I told my mom I was getting rid of the skirt when I got home. Even if it started to fit me again, I'd decided it wasn't all that cute to begin with.
"I think that's a very good idea," she said, perhaps a little too eager to agree with me. I found myself wondering why she was so vehement.
"What?" I asked.
"Well, when you asked me this morning if you thought that outfit looked OK, I guess I didn't really look," she admitted. "And then today, when I saw you in the store, I thought you could almost pass for, you know, one of the little people."
Now, my mom has always done a great job making me see the positive side of being petite (as she's always made sure to call me). In this rare moment of non-sugar-coated honesty, it was all I could do to keep from ripping the skirt off and throwing it away, right then and there in the Ikea parking lot.
Today, I was extra careful getting dressed. I thought of Trinny and Susannah, lengthening the torso, elooooooongating the legs. I picked out a pair of pre-pregnancy capri pants and a sweater vest-shirt combo I got right before returning to work in December. I slipped on my clogs and headed to the kitchen to make coffee, feeling happy to have found something that looked decent, felt comfortable, and would allow for discreet nursing and easy baby-wrangling.
Nick was already at the kitchen table.
"Hi!" he said, enthusiastically. A little too enthusiastically, if you know what I mean. (He could barely contain his laughter.)
"What's so funny?" I asked.
"Hi little Dutch boy!" he said.
"What are you talking about?"
"Want a little cap? It would go perfectly with your cute little knickers and your clogs!" He was rather pleased with himself. I simply carried on making my coffee. There was really nothing I could say.
I'm still wearing the ensemble. I'm actually afraid to change into something else. With my track record, I might make the situation worse. If anyone wants to nominate me for What Not to Wear, I promise I won't be offended.