Second Trimester Fashion Limbo

OK, let's be completely honest, I haven't been satisfied with my body probably ever, though I realize now that no one is harder on themselves when it comes to their body than a young woman, so at some point – likely around the time that I wore a size 8 and all my skinny jeans didn't have to come equipped with some sort of Lycra – I should have been happy with my body. In hindsight, that at least gives me a measurable goal to get back to in the war on weight loss. A war in which I win some battles and lose some.

For example, while prepping for my week-long trip to Santorini, Greece, I have my usual ‘winning/losing’ routine: lose the customary 5-10 pre-vacation pounds. Then, as is also customary, gain it all back gorging on strong wines and rich food while gone. (Apparently the Mediterranean diet doesn’t work when wine becomes a main dish.)

Once I return, after being stateside for a few short weeks, one very determined swimmer calls one of my unsuspecting eggs home, just as I was tipping the scale at my highest weight yet. The shock and elation of finding out I was pregnant is quickly followed by the dread of what the scale and my body will look like in the coming weeks and months. I pray for morning sickness. It comes, but only in the form of mild to moderate nausea – like being hungover all the time. I can’t eat much and when I do all I want is salad, fruit and eggs. I lose a few pounds, but more importantly maintain what I have so that at 13 weeks I’m still fitting fashionably into most of my clothes. Then comes week 14. My clothes are no longer fashionable. My pants button, but with a stuffed sausage-like quality I’ve been able to avoid all my life. (Throughout the war, I’ve always managed to maintain a fairly slender core.) I take an early leap into the maternity section for a few holiday dresses, but only end up looking twice as far along as I actually am. To me, it’s just a testament to how big I’ve gotten and how quickly. Accentuating the over-sized tummy that I’m not yet proudly owning. I’ve hit second trimester fashion limbo. Not fitting well into my pre-pregnancy clothes, but not quite ready for maternity wear. 

I decide maybe I can keep things steady or even generate a minor weight reversal, so after the holidays I get back into the gym only to get a little ahead of myself and end up in the doctor’s office. Nothing serious, but I’ve been restricted (by Rick) from stepping foot onto another treadmill. I sneak in quick 20-minute core workouts when Rick’s not around, but, inevitably, on the morning of the start of my 18^th week, I find the button of my pants coming up about an inch and a half short. Whoops! Now, I’m where no woman should be: unable to fit her clothes, but without any maternity clothes on hand! I somehow make it through the day with leggings and a recently purchased over-sized sweater.

But the much appreciated outcome of reaching the pinnacle of the second trimester limbo is that it’s time to go shopping! That’s when I make the next majorly important discovery: maternity clothes are extremely trendy these days. I feel like I’m going to have to upgrade my post-pregnancy closet in order to maintain the benchmark I’ve set in maternity clothes. Plus, now I’m able to “own the bump”. Not that I have a choice. I’m 20 weeks in and it seems my belly is getting rounder by the day. And I couldn’t be happier.

There are Still Surprises in this Life

It had been almost exactly three years since we started trying to get pregnant until the time that we found out that we actually were pregnant. In that three years, we'd gone from optimistic novices who thought that - in spite of Rick's plethora of medical issues - one random unprotected incidence would surely end in pregnancy to jaded pessimists who committed more time to planning our next vacation than to our burgeoning family. In that same three years, we'd seen life: in the silvery fish darting through the clear blue Caribbean sea off the white beaches of Riviera Maya, in the home that was new to us but held over a 100 years of other families' histories, in the baker's dozen of eggs that were retrieved from my ovaries in our IVF cycle, in the birth of my beautiful niece. Sadly we also saw death: in the sudden loss of our beloved dog Ezra to kidney failure, in the failure of the two fertilized eggs implanted into my uterus to take hold and - most devastatingly - in the loss of my father after his two-year battle colon cancer.

And then, just as we started to own our lives together as two adults, no children; just as we decided to let God take the wheel while we focus on the here and now - it happened. It happened how I always imagined it could never happen. Between the ovulation tracking, temperature taking, hormone shots and month-after-month of bloody discovery; I had given up on the idea of genuine surprise.

Well, surprise! Good thing I hadn't booked that trip to Greece yet.

While it hurts my heart that my father passed just days after my niece was born and will never get to hold in his arms the grandchildren that he so longed to have, I can't help but believe it is he - working in cahoots with Rick's mom - that we should thank, in part, for this blessing.

I'm in my fourth month now and it still hasn't quite sunk in. You see, when you've experienced the type of unearned hardship that Rick and I have, you appreciate yet question every good thing. Maybe it won't be until that screamingly healthy baby is laid across my chest that I'll finally bask in the limelight of motherhood. Honestly, even then I'll likely ride on the edge of constant worry; an elated yet tortured soul until the moment that - on my geriatric deathbed - I look up at my adult child(ren); successful, healthy and self-sufficient; that I will feel at peace. And I am OK with that.

Things I Learned When Traveling with My Mom for the First Time

It's been almost 4 weeks since returning from an amazing Grecian vacation with my mother. My mom and I had never taken a trip, just to the two of us. By time I was of an age where I took interest in vacationing with my mom, my dad was diagnosed with colon cancer. Although he didn’t need round the clock care until much later, my mom was much too concerned about his health to take a leisure trip. Traveling for work was hard enough. When my father succumbed to his disease in May 2015, I became determined to get my mom out of the country and out of her comfort zone.

Rick and I had been dreaming of Greece as our next vacation spot, but trying to be responsible adults we agreed to take a two year “vacation hiatus” during which time we would see how much money we would actually save by not taking elaborate European or Caribbean vacations each year. For fun, I would still check the prices for Greece and even researched the best times to go. In the back of my head, I must have been thinking if I could sell the idea and do it inexpensively Rick might let up on the hiatus – even though we weren’t even a year into it. Who’d of thought it would be ME trying to convince RICK to spend money; my how the tables have turned!

The stars aligned just days before my dad’s funeral. Round-trip tickets were under $1000. Six nights in a four-star hotel added in only about another $600. My mom was in just a fragile enough state of mind to agree to book a 7-day European vacation, even though I had never mentioned it to her before. Plus, how could Rick say no? Within a few hours we were booked. I scheduled us to leave a day after what would have been my dad’s 60th birthday. This trip was for him, as much as it was for my mom.

It didn’t occur to me at the time what it meant to travel to Europe for seven days with your mother, who – in 31 years – the closest you’ve ever gotten to taking a solo trip with is a day-long shopping excursion. So here’s a few interesting things I learned when traveling with my mom for the first time.

1. Everything I do or say perplexes her. No matter question or statement my mother is perpetually confused by me. Things like, “I’m going to take a hike” or “what are you wearing today” are met by a furrowed brow and look more appropriate had I said “I’ve decided to convert to alienism and move to Mars”. I’ve gotten accustomed to saying “stop looking at me like that” and she’s almost as accustomed to…well, not looking so damn confused all the time.
2. She has little to no sense of adventure. This is something I’m determined to change. Maybe it comes from a lifetime of keeping safe a pack of wild humans (my dad included) and pets (our dogs have always been nuts), but my mom’s first response to almost every action I make claim to is “no you’re not.” Whether it’s “I’m going to hike up that mountain” or “I’m going to buy this dress” her response is fervently "no you're not". I jokingly tell her she has a “can’t” attitude that I’m going to turn into a “can-do” one. She says I’m just like my dad – trying things that she thinks we have no business doing and may very well kill us, send us to the hospital or – at the very least – to the poor house. I realize now that it was my dad who pushed my mom to stretch herself. To keep up with him, she had to. When my dad wanted to vacation at a ranch in Wyoming, my mom took lessons and learned to ride a horse like an expert; eventually riding one straight up the side of a mountain. Something I never imagined she would do. In my dad’s absence, it is I who will encourage and inspire my mom to stretch herself and do new things that she thinks she can’t. So that maybe one day she’ll hike up that mountain, or swim in the sea or – gasp – buy that dress. And in this one trip I've already made headway. When we first arrived I commented that the island of Santorini - and especially Imerovigli, where we stayed - was so peaceful and the landscape so inspirational that this is a trip one could take alone. She, after looking at me with that confused face, replied "no, I could never travel like this alone." But our very last day on the island, as we looked out over the Aegean sea drinking chilled white wine, she said confidently "I could come here by myself." So, yes, somewhere in there is a sense of adventure just waiting to come out.
3. I will never feel sexy with my mom around. Social media has introduced us to a host of cringe-worthy mother-daughter relationships that are grossly oversexualized. My mom and I aren’t completely on the other end of the spectrum, but – as I discovered during our trip – we are in some strange middle ground. We can talk openly about sex and relationships, but that’s about as far as it goes. What that translates into is that when in a strange bar, in a foreign country, that no matter how many drink specials I have or bedroom-eyed selfies I take, with my mom around, I will feel silly and childlike. There’s nothing seductive about me being in a bar with my mom. Considering how often I find myself in a strange bar in a foreign land with her, I suppose that’s OK.
4. Maybe I should invest in a selfie stick. Any selfie I take will be better than any picture my mom takes of me. OK, pictures are a big thing on vacation, right? And getting good ones is almost as important as being there in the first place. My mom will take a picture in which my arms are squished up against my torso in a way that makes them appear more like thighs and my smile is on the verge of maniacal, then say after snapping, in an enthusiastic tone, “that was a good one!” This is not because my mom is a horrible picture taker who often has trouble finding the button that snaps the picture in the first place (though she is and that only adds to the issue); but because, to my mother, I am beautiful at any angle. 

Thankful to Be a Whole Better Me

Now that I've come out of the food coma that Thanksgiving so often puts me in, I've become quite reflective and still quite thankful. One hundred and fifty years ago Abraham Lincoln declared the last Thursday in November as a day of thanks and, in spite of their best efforts, retailers have not yet stripped the day of the value it holds for us. Free from the controversy of Christmas (religion, gift-mongering, etc), the materialistic connotations of Valentine's Day (expensive gifts and dinners), and the downright danger of Independence Day (heavy drinking + explosives), Thanksgiving remains relatively true to its original intent. A day of thanks to be spent surrounded by the people – and possibly things – for which you're most thankful.

Maybe I'm getting old or maybe it's hormones, but I find myself more sentimental than ever and Thanksgiving is as sentimental a time as any. This year Rick and I celebrated a milestone by hosting Thanksgiving for the first time in our new home. You see, once cooking an entire dinner for ten became too much for my grandmother and my parents moved out of state Thanksgiving turned into a haphazard holiday. Sometimes I spent it at my parents without Rick because he works on Friday can't travel out of state or with Rick and his family in Chicago but without any of my extended family. This year was the first time that we were all able to spend it together. And it was glorious (queue the choir!).

The day after Thanksgiving we also hosted the second annual 'Friendsgiving'. All of our friends gather – in pajamas no less – to gorge on (and hopefully deplete) leftovers while simply enjoying each other's company. You would think we'd all be too tired to get together the day after Thanksgiving, but it's a tradition that we plan to keep going as long as we can.

After two days surrounded by friends and family I realized what I am truly thankful for, though I was unable to declare it aloud. As cheesy as it sounds I am most thankful for Rick. Rick brings out the best in me. He is my other half in so many ways. He's calm when I'm stressed, he's stressed when I'm calm. He's talkative when I'm distracted and playful when I'm crabby. We fit each other like puzzle pieces. He also has brought so much to my life. His love, his family, his friends they're all a part of me now that I wouldn't trade for the world.

While a life partner may not be able to bring an ecosystem of friends and family to you, they should be able pinch-hit where you fall short and you should do the same. You can be whole on your own...never forget that! But a true love will make you an even better whole.

Accepting the Other Half of Your Other Half

Being committed to someone – really committed – means accepting their good with their bad. Yes, we've all heard that before. But, make no mistake, 'accepting' someone doesn't mean spending the rest of your life with them. I 'accept' that my co-worker waits until the last minute to do every project then frantically pulls me in for help, I 'accept' that my insurance agent thinks email is an appropriate way to sell me life insurance, I 'accepted' that my ex-boyfriend was a chronic philanderer, but I certainly won't spend the rest of my life with these people. Everyone has a line. And it's important that we define it early on in relationships to prepare for situations like this:

My husband, Rick and I were freshly engaged when I had the second of many memorable meetings with his alter ego, 'Drunk Rick'. You see, Drunk Rick is the result of an avid beer drinker getting his hands on something much harder, say vodka, tequila, or – worse yet – whiskey. Drunk Rick creeps in quietly telling my otherwise well-meaning, level-headed husband  'pour yourself another...you can handle it'.  

On one evening in particular, we were celebrating the 20-something birthday of a mutual friend in the VIP section of a club with a steady stream of Grey Goose. Between songs, I noticed Drunk Rick stumble toward a table and clumsily pour himself a drink, having needed because he'd spilled two others before. I grabbed him explaining that it was "time to go." Drunk Rick followed drunkenly along behind me as I said good-byes on behalf of us both. Upon arriving at the coat check we realized that Drunk Rick lost my coat check ticket. The sign "lost tickets must wait until after closing to collect coats" glared down at me from its taped up position on the wall. An ocean of black Pea coats of all shapes, sizes, and materials spread out ahead of me. My favorite London Fog somewhere lost out to sea. It was hours before closing time and there was no way I could keep Drunk Rick in line during that time. As I turned to leave, livid over the ridiculous loss of a coat quite possibly right in front of my face, Rick grabbed at my shirt and refused to let go. Security quickly scooped him up and commenced to carrying him out as he yelled "do you know who I am" all the way down the two flights of stairs to the exit. Horrified, I retrieved my husband's best friend who would be much more likely to claim relation to Drunk Rick than me.

At that point, everyone in our party decided to call it a night mercifully sharing in my walk of shame. Outside security had Drunk Rick pinned against a gate while he continued to question, loudly, as to if they knew who is was and when they didn't answer replied "I'M RICK!". (Side Note: Rick had started working part-time for the same security firm that employed these guys a few weeks prior. The firm was owned by an alderman whose son was a good friend of Rick's, which is how he got the job. Apparently, he felt this gave him some clout. It didn't.) Eventually Drunk Rick's best friend managed to dump him into the passenger seat of my car. And when he leaned over the door to throw up I noticed, in all his rage, Drunk Rick had almost completely ripped the arm off of the Calvin Klein blazer he was wearing that I'd gotten him for Christmas the year before. Icing on the cake.

This wouldn't be the last time Drunk Rick showed his face; each time with its own flavor of ridiculousness or rage. Like the time he threw up in the coat closet because he angrily insisted he 'WAS in the bathroom', or the time he made a teary-eyed, but fake marriage proposal to me in front of our family and friends only to claim he couldn't remember anything the next day, or the time he started spitting on the floor of our bedroom because I wouldn't let him sleep in his shoes.

While these all make for hilarious stories (our friends and I considered getting shirts made that said 'do you know who I am' on the front and 'I'M RICK' on the back one year as a joke Christmas gift), they typically end in a hung over, regretful apology coupled with promises to never drink hard liquor again. Now, do I ever really think this will never happen again? Of course not! That's why it keeps happening. The point is that months before that embarrassing exile from a club we can never go back to, Rick and I got engaged (for real engaged, not Drunk Rick engaged) which meant that I love this a**hole enough to put up with Drunk Rick coming out every once in a while over an entire lifetime. I don't get any less angry and Rick doesn't apologize any less shamefully, it's just something that happens. In the voice of a Jehovah's witness on my front porch at 7AM, I have accepted Drunk Rick into my life. Because he carries so much good along with him.

So the question remains, how much bad are you taking with your good?

Maybe it's time to accept someone, but let them go. Or maybe it's time to accept someone and let 'it' go so you can love them anyway. Either way, 'acceptance' does not signify 'commitment'.

One Year Later

One year ago today, I woke up at 6am tired and groggy from a late night of girl talk and free wine. I had my hair and makeup professionally done while I let several mimosas go to my head. I employed the help of three other girls to put on a while ball gown adorned with lace, chiffon, and crystals. I got closer to my sister than I ever have when I realized that I'd forgotten to put on my something blue panties.

I paced the floor of the Knickerbocker lobby waiting for a limo driver that was thirty minutes late. The nerves subsided just a bit each time a tourist ooh'd, ahhh'd and asked to take a picture with me. I yelled at the sweet but late driver when he asked which route to take to avoid traffic "WHICHEVER ONE IS THE QUICKEST!". My chest began to heave as we approached the church and before I could speak my wonderful florist whisked out of the car and to my Dad in the bridal room. His eyes teared up as the photographer captured our Father Daughter moment.

I began to cry when I saw how many people were in the pews waiting to share our special ceremony. I kneeled longer than I ever thought I could and swapped one Maid of Honor for another when the first got light headed from it all. I smiled uncontrollably as the ceremony, kiss, and pictures went off perfectly. We arrived at the party we threw just for us bathed inattention and champagne. I was surrounded by waiters holding plates of flaky, bite-sized Beef Wellingtons and crispy coconut shrimp. Family and friends excitedly talked with just wanting a moment with the lady of the hour.

I cried at times I never thought I would (best man speech) and I times I knew I would (Father Daughter dance). We convinced people that we practiced our first dance for weeks though we'd been so busy planning we hadn't danced in months. We wowed our guest with a venue that most people hadn't been to in a decade, if at all. We hosted as ifmit were our own home and joined in the show whenever we could. I shocked when I arrived in a party dress

and even my grandmother, who walks with a cane, couldn't keep from getting down. The dance floor, like people glasses, were never empty and the party went on much longer than we could.

One year ago today, I walked into a suite similar to the one I'm in now and next to a man I knew I could never stop loving. And the next day I woke up the way I pray I always will: in the arms of my husband. Today we celebrate our one year anniversary and I invite everyone who celebrated with us this day one year ago to celebrate right along with us. We can't be there but please have a drink, share a laugh and a dance on us!

Sentimental value, like love, should be reserved for people not things.

The title of this blog is actually an original quote that I recently posted on Facebook.  It received several likes, which leads to believe that it's not to be taken lightly. This quote came to me during the time Rick and I have spent away from home. I miss home so much that it's thrown off many of the activities that I regularly enjoy, cooking a nice dinner, having a glass of wine (or two) relaxing on the couch, even exercising. I've tried reminding myself that home is what you make it and being anywhere as long as it's with Rick should feel like home. So it's possible that I created this quote as a way to convince myself of its validity. It was this quote that I said over and over again to myself as I walked through the darkened lobby of my company's Chicago Loop office last night to gather my things. I've accepted a position with another group - still within my same company - that will take me out to our west suburban office. I repeated this mantra to keep from getting "sentimental" about my departure.

Of course I'll miss the hustle and bustle of the city, but after close to 6 years down here I don't approach this change with complete disdain. I'll miss popping across the street for a happy hour cocktail, especially when it leads to an entire night of festivities hitting one hot night spot after another. I'll miss the fast-paced, no nonsense way in which the working class operates downtown. Knowing we're all here to achieve the same main goals - work, lunch, home - creates a kind of unity that is difficult to find among such diversity. Seeing the same people at 9 that you do at 5, even though you may live worlds apart is grounding. In the suburbs you see the same people because you work with them. You know where they're going, you know who they work for, and eventually you start avoiding them because if you have to grin through one more bout of small talk you might just claw your eyes out. Those things almost don't exist downtown. And here I go getting sentimental again.

Let me end this by saying that I've given myself permission to feel sentimental today. Not because I'll miss the silent strangers on the street, the gleaming walls of the office lobby, or even the happy hour options, but because I'll miss my people.  The people who have become like family to me because we argue, we joke, and even though we rarely hang out outside of the office when we do it's like we do it all the time. So it's the people, not the things that I'm getting choked up about. They may not know it because I certainly won't show it, but I'm smiling to hold back whatever emotions might actually show if I let them. Because even in a city as small town as Chicago, leaving the center is like moving to another planet.

All-in-all I believe the quote "sentimental value, like love, should be reserved for people not things" is meant to help me disconnect from things and recognize what is really driving the sentiment: memories, people, experiences, so that I can hold on to what's important and let go of what is not.