Why are maternity clothes so hard to get hold of?

Rant alert!

I’ve just been to Tesco and spent more money than I wanted to on bigger pants. I’ve had a near permanent wedgie for the last week so it’s definitely time to invest in larger knickers.

I didn’t but maternity pants as I wouldn’t be seen dead in those over the bump monstrosities unless I was entering a fancy dress competition as an egg in an egg cup.

The thing I find beyond irritating is the complete lack of maternity clothing on the high street. I can go and buy maternity clothes from New Look (but only the branch in the city centre, not the one closer to me) or H&M. That’s it. Sure, more places sell maternity clothes but only online, not on store.

How sodding annoying is that?! And my goodness the selection usually makes me want to weep, black leggings and stripy top anyone? Or ‘hands off my bump!’ I’d like one that says: ‘If you touch me I will hurt you.’

I’m currently wearing a maternity top I brought in a sale because I needed something to hide my growing belly at work. It’s bloody awful, flowery and frills EVERYWHERE. I don’t need frills, I’m huge. Why would I want to add MORE volume to my physique? FRILLS!!

It also seems that you pay a premium for maternity clothes, some are exquisitely made with quality fabric and worth the money. Others are just expensive shite. For the next six months I will be unable to go clothes shopping. And when I drag my post baby body round the shops to boost my confidence in February, I’ll find that nowhere considers the post-baby bod.

I have found acceptable clothes online, but I can’t try them on, I have to wait for delivery, returning items is often a nightmare, every shop has a slightly different idea what size 12 is, at some point I won’t be a size 12 anymore (chipsticks are totally my jam. No matter how sick I’m feeling I can eat sackfuls of these vinigary bites of heaven) then the whole sizing issue starts again.

And I miss wandering round the shops, picking things up, sitting in a coffee shop with my bags of exciting bits! Shopping becomes another thing on a list of things I can’t do because I’m pregnant. Is it too much to ask if a shop has a maternity range that they sell in in-store too? Apparently it is.

If you need me, I’ll be sitting by a window remembering all the times I saw something I liked in a shop, brought it and took the whole experience for granted!

In other news:

Will is now confidently saying ‘naughty cats’ and ‘Marmite! Dindins!!’ Still point blank refuses to say ‘Captain’.

Marmite now thinks she has 473 dinners a day.

Chances of us having a new bathroom before baby comes are getting slimmer everyday.

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The plague strikes again.

The Warwick household has been hit with illness! Hubs has shingles and we suspect that William might now have chicken pox.

The boy could give the human torch a run for his money he’s that hot. Naturally getting him to take his medicine is a battle, heaven forbid he just take it and feel better.

Seeing my baby boy poorly does unusual things to me. I feel I’m now stuck in fight mode and will kill ANYONE if it helps my boy feel better. Even though he currently wants nothing to do with me, and is snuggled with his dad. This is also killing me, as I can’t shake ‘I’m the Mummy, I make him feel better’ mentality.

As for Bump, Bump is totally safe as I’ve had chicken pox before. Although the thoughtful foetus made he feel bloody awful yesterday so I don’t feel left out of the poorly club.

Usually possessing the organisational skills that allow me to get up on time(ish) and nothing more, I now have detailed records of temperature, food eaten, drinks drank, medicine taken and appearance at various points throughout the day. This will continue until he is back to full health.

Much to our relief he’s finally drinking but I expect we have a couple of days of blankets, tv and cuddles.

The Bump Chronicles

The time has come to but bigger pants, I have a permanent wedgie.

I have started knitting a blanket for baby, if my track record is anything to go by, it should be ready by the time bump starts school.

I am 15 weeks today!

Being pregnant and suffering with anxiety.

I have deliberately used the term ‘suffering’. Everyone gets anxious it is arguably a useful human emotion, we need it to an extent. But I suffer from it. It is beyond a useful tool to ensure I get to work on time, and pay my bills. It is the reason I can’t sleep at night. It is the fear that grips me during a car journey when I become convinced that I will die in a crash before I get home. It is the paranoia that people have noticed that I am an appalling excuse for a human being.

Before I became pregnant I was taking medication for my anxiety. And it was working. No panic attacks, the ability to both fall and stay asleep. The ever increasing periods of positivity and dealing with issues that previously would have affected me for weeks.

Then that little blue line appeared on the test window and all medication stopped. And will remain so. I will not risk harm to my baby.

On ceasing the medication I found suddenly how effective it had been. I think my anxiety stems from my failed teaching career. The enormous amount of stress and personal turmoil that caused has never and probably will never be addressed. I feel such a crushing feeling of failure and loss about it that I don’t see me ever fully ‘getting over it’. I’ve said before I have nightmares about it. I’m in the classroom, teaching, enjoying myself. The children start to get noisy and I start loosing control, I try all the tricks that worked in the classroom, they are ineffective. So I start shouting, nothing. I target one child, try to bring them to heel. Nothing. I get angry shout louder, knowing its exactly NOT what I should be doing. And then I wake up, sweating, heart racing, on the verge of tears.

Last night I had that dream again. I tried the clapping pattern I used to do in the classroom to refocus the attention. Nothing, so I clapped harder and harder again and again. Perhaps I really was clapping, my hands were hurting me and I’ve been told you can’t feel pain in a dream. It was different this time, the walls at the back of the classroom lifted and the children went to their parents, still talking, still completely ignoring every effort on my part to regain control. I turned and saw my sister and best friend from childhood standing in the classroom by the door and I burst into tears. Children and parents still milling about, and now my own din was added to the noise. Uncontrollable sobbing.

I’ve never cried during this dream before. I’ve felt like it, but always remained strong enough to refrain. I don’t know why last night was different. All I can do it hope that’s the last time I ever have my sleep invaded by that absolute horror show. But I know it won’t be.

Pregnancy is an anxious time for anyone. Even the second time around. I spent the first few weeks convinced I’d miscarry. There is no medical reason for me worry, nothing about my history that makes it likely. But that’s not how my anxiety works. Every day is a battle between my rational and anxious self. Sometimes rational wins sometimes the anxious. The same anxious side that told me, when the sonographer ran that plastic thingy over the cold, clear jelly on my tummy I would see a dead baby on screen.

My hope is when I start to feel movement these anxieties will subside. At the same time imagine I shall be a thorn in the side of the NHS. And I know, ‘worry can effect the baby’, that is simply another source of anxiety for me.

So it’s different this time, I feel all the wonderful emotions I felt last time. But they’re tainted, with the unshakable feeling that something awful will happen, to the baby, to me or to someone I love. And that’s just something I’ve got to live with for a while.

I want a drink.

Before I became pregnant for the second time, I quit drinking. I’d reached my officially fat weight. According to my BMI. (Body Mass Index). So I thought I’d pack in the adult pop. Cut some calories. Did it work?

No.

I quit drink and developed a hankering for filled donuts. After spending a family pamper evening sans booze and weighing myself the next day to find I’d actually put on weight since my personal prohibition, I thought ‘fuck it.’ Hubs and I walked to the pub on a glorious sunny day and I worked my way through three little bottles of prosecco and had a very wobbly walk home. I’d gone several weeks without a drop and thought why torture myself in perfect drinking weather by abstaining for no reason.

I was officially back on the booze and off the donuts. I found that psychologically I figured not drinking freed up so many calories, donuts, crisps and large amounts of cheese would simply be cancelled out. (No human could drink enough booze to cancel out the cheese and donut calories I got through without killing themselves.)

Now there is a very real reason why I can’t drink, and whilst I’m glad for my (albeit brief) dry spell as it has made stopping again much easier, I (for the first time in my pregnancy so far) would really like a glass of red wine. A nice wine, in a lovely glass, that I can sip from over an evening. Rich and dark and a little sweet. One that warms the insides as it slips down. I can almost smell it.

Will I have a glass of wine?

No. There is no known safe limit of alcohol during pregnancy. So no, wine will remain a fantasy for the foreseeable future. And yes I’ve tried the alcohol free wine, it’s bloody awful. Truly bloody awful.

In other news:

The boy had his first haircut at the barbers today. He was so good! He looks very grown up!

Pregnancy hormones have meant I’m crying at everything. Mostly at shit videos on Facebook. This will only get worse.

I was feeling hungry and not at all sick this morning, as I tucked into my scrambled eggs on toast ceebeebies decided to show a weird cartoon with a chicken crying because it couldn’t push it’s egg out, the other animals were ‘helping’ by trying to pull the egg out the rest of the way (I kid you not) I was a little bit sick in my mouth and breakfast went in the bin. Curse you ceebeebies!!

The Bump Chronicles – The first trimester.

So. We did it again. Officially up le duff again.

So far I’ve spent 13 weeks trying not to throw up or explode at someone. Apparently my tolerance for stupid severely decreases when I’m with child.

Ritz crackers have been my saviour, the salty little gods. My first trimester aversion to fruit and vegetables shows little sign of abating and I suspect I might give birth to a Happy Meal.

I have desperately been trying to hide my bump at work. With limited success. I’ve seen them look, but are too scared to ask if I’m pregnant in case I’m just fat. We’re past that now, to say I’ve ‘popped’ is an understatement. More like exploded, you could float me over London to protect the city from ariel attacks.

My skin is NOT glowing, the only place my hair is getting thicker and more lustrous is my chin and as I’m already the mother of a toddler getting plenty of rest has been out of the question. I fell asleep in front of the boy the other day and he started smacking me with a plastic banana.

So thirteen weeks down, 27 to go, (if by some miracle baby arrives on time) so expect 27 weeks of whinging and perhaps a little more information than you’re comfortable with.

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Just keep swimming.

I took the boy swimming today. We haven’t been since he went on holiday last year. We are going away with hubs’ parents this year and whilst he’ll be under constant supervision in the pool, we’d like him to have recent experience of being in water.

As it’s the summer holidays there are plenty of sessions on and after checking the timetable this morning I thought I’d strike whilst the iron is hot.

To my relief as I was checking said timetable the boy did a big poo, meaning i only had to worry about the boy floating in the pool…

I told the boy we were going swimming and he seemed excited. So I’m not sure why, when it came to actually leaving the house he threw an epic tantrum. Crying, folding his arms, throwing himself on the floor. The works. I remained calm. But in these situations ‘What the fuck is wrong now?!’ Is never far from the tip of my tongue. After coaxing him out of the house I carried him to the car still sobbing. I have no idea why he was crying.

We got to the pool and headed to the (slightly grotty) changing room. There were two old ladies getting changed after their swim who told me Will had ‘such an angelic face’ ha! I wonder what they’d have said if they’d seen him 15 minutes earlier. As the ladies were changing he stared at them. I broke out into a cold sweat. This could go one of two ways. 1: he’ll point at their bodies and shout ‘yuk’ as he does to me on a now daily basis. Or 2: he’ll try and ‘tickle’ them which basically involves grabbing body parts and laughing hysterically. Thank god I had my swimsuit on under my clothes! If there was an Olympic medal for speed changing, I’d have won the gold.

We did the walk of humiliation past EVERYONE to get to the pool. The boy was unsure to start with but when he got onto the water enjoyed shouting ‘splash!’ at the top of his lungs, pointing at my boobs and shouting ‘yuk!’ And pulling the front of my swimsuit down. I also got kicked in the fanny repeatedly.

I definitely helicoptered in the pool but I guess when the alternative is him drowning, helicoptering is important. His head went under once, and whilst he wasn’t happy about it it went down better than I expected. Lessons have now been booked on a Daddy can share the ‘fun’.

I couldn’t help but think parenting is a lot like this swimming experience. Sometimes you feel out of your depth, sometimes you can barely keep your head above the water. Sometimes no matter how hard you try, it feels like a constant kick in the fanny. But one day, you’ll not only be floating, you’ll be swimming.

In other news:

The boy is talking more and more, but every now and again will shout something that sounds a lot like ‘dick’.

I have given up on a tidy house. The boy is the anti-tidy.

I shall attempt to make a cake with the boy later, something I may very well regret…

…and I’m broken.

The day started with the boy sat in a puddle of his own urine, and nappy so heavy with the stuff it could have been used to anchor a cruise ship.

We’ve played with the play-doh (two colours only, which I’m pleased to say have not been mixed) watched a few episodes the Twirly Woos (as many as I can watch before I want to slit my own throat. This number is rapidly decreasing.)

Then we went out. Our fridge is empty. Not empty but I could easily whip up two meals… it’s empty empty.

Knowing never to shop on an empty stomach I took the boy into M&S for some lunch. Will decided he wanted to sit on my lap, as that was the best place to be to wipe pasta sauce all over my clothes. Refusing to eat most of his pasta but giving all my food a good fingering I gave up on the whole lunch idea and headed to Tesco. I had the pushchair but Will was not strapped in, he was walking beside it. That way if he gets tired it’s there but I can also put my shopping basket in it and avoid the whole trolley tantrum scenario.

As we neared Next I decided to pop in and check the sale for boy’s sandals. The smell coming off his is quite frankly a health hazzard but due to the fashion season all I can get in the shops now are wellies and winter boots (just in time for August!) crocs and croc like shoes are available but no way in hell am I putting my boy in them. It’s bad enough pretending I don’t know my own mum when she insists on wearing them on holiday.

We got to the entrance and Will stopped in the doorway. He kept saying ‘bus’ I assume he meant the both shit and astronomically expensive kiddy ride outside Tesco. (A quid?! You can fuck right off!)

He wouldn’t move. And started to cry. No biggie. I tried the old walkin’ away trick. He moved closer but then started wailing so I decided the best course of action was to put him in his pushchair. That was a mistake.

He unleashed the demon.

And I burst into tears. In a shop. In public. I tried to power through. The boy was still screaming and I received a filthy look from a woman with a perhaps nine year old boy, obviously suffering from memory loss. Either that or her son was a robot.

Turns out I was unable to power through. Instead of buying much needed groceries we went to the car. Will looked confused as he was strapped into his car seat by a blubbering mess. The mess that sat in the car park for five minutes (crying) before driving home (still crying).

We got into the house, the boy had clearly forgotten his tantrum and tucked his Hey Duggee ‘Happy’ soft toy under my arm. (No, the irony was not lost on me.)

I’m not cross with the boy. He’s just being two. But I’m furious with myself for letting his tantrum get to me, and putting on such a spectacular public show of how not to parent. Or even adult. Surely I should have this down by now? To to be perfectly honest he’s done worse and that hasn’t made me spend the afternoon crying on and off.

I think I’m getting a migraine. Icing and cake much?

In other news:

Apparently when will yells ‘Fanny’ he means ‘rain’.

The boy pulled my dress up when I was getting off the loo, pointed at my lady parts and said ‘yuk’ earlier today. Do I top myself now or later?

The cats are taking advantage of the wet weather to get filthy and leave footprints all over the duvet. A hobby they’ve not had the opportunity to indulge in for quite some time.