Worse Than Mom Jeans

Let me tell you something: If you start to feel that you're living too charmed a life, that you could use a little grounding, a little humbling, do the following. Have a baby. By c-section, just for a little added pain. And then go bathing suit shopping.

I realize my last post was along the same lines: a long, whine-y rant about my new body. I promise this will not become a blog all about my "weight loss journey" or whatever you call this post-baby search for my waistline. But I went to find a bathing suit the other night, because although I think wearing a hazmat or space suit to the beach would be really awesome, it's possible that it would just draw more attention to me and my very un-beach-worthy body.

So I dragged myself to shop for one. I decided to look at the discount stores (Filene's Basement, Marshalls), because I believe, perhaps naively, that this particular suit will be a one-season investment. My days of wearing anything ending in the suffix "-ini" long behind me, I scanned the one-piece racks for something, anything, remotely palatable. What I discovered is that the line between modest and matronly is precariously thin. There were lots of bold floral prints in unfortunate colors that I can pretty confidently say aren't going to do anyone any favors. There were flouncy skirts and awkward belts. There were thick, molded bra cups. Much of what I saw just screamed "mommy who has given up."

Most of what I then tried on was obviously out of the question. Two seemed within the realm of the possible, but since I have no objectivity, I decided to take them both home and ask my husband's opinion. I have yet to work up the nerve to try them on for him, but I'm going to have to soon. One is slimming up top, with ruffles and a plunging neckline that is totally unlike me to wear but I'm hoping might wag the dog and keep eyes away from my lower half. I'll let you know what he says. At the very least, the lighting in my house has got to be better than what the fitting room lighting, which was definitely no one's BFF.

The other thing that happened was that I turned 34 yesterday. Which means, well, that I'm one year older. And it's also the last year before 35 and that invisible line of demarcation they've created between good and bad eggs. Since we already know my eggs aren't great, and we have to get science involved to find a good one that makes a baby, this is a bit unsettling. I'd love to have all kinds of time to figure out whether we want to try again -- would love for it to be as easy as deciding to throw away the pill pack. But it's not. It requires lots of planning and processes, and we simply don't have the luxury of waiting if we want to optimize our chances of ever having a sibling for H. So, even as we still have a baby young enough to wake once a night for feeding, we're debating the pros and cons of going for #2. Stay tuned for more on this unfolding saga.

Meanwhile, though my husband disagrees, I declare that 34 is still officially early 30s. Mid-30s is 35 and 36. Everyone knows that.