A New Regular* Blog Feature: A How-To You Actually Need

* And by regular, I mean whenever I remember it.

In this day and age, there is a plethora of information about things you need to know when raising a child.

Don't know which end the diaper goes on? No worries, there's a detailed account of how to do that on the Internet. How do you stay on the slippery newborn bath time rodeo for more than a minute? Never fear! There's a YouTube video to guide you through the soapy war zone.

But inevitably, you still come across tasks that leave you stumped.

I've found these are the tasks that directly impact me getting back into a normal life routine...so they are burning hot priorities for me to figure out.

YOU lucky folks are going to benefit from my distress and subsequent ingenuity in this new feature: "A How-To You Actually Need."

How-To #1: How To Go Shopping with a Newborn

I'm not talking about carousing the mall for the latest fashions. I hate clothes shopping with a white, fiery, burning passion and plan on rocking my maternity clothes until I am old enough to wear a mu mu in public without drawing too much attention.

This how-to deals directly with shopping which requires a cart.

My first trip to the grocery store after The Bean was born was an exciting day for me. Freedom and normalcy were in the air. I was actually leaving the house! I would be driving my car again! There would be actual adults around! People would coo at The Bean while I acted all aloof and like a well put together first-time mom going about her daily chores!

Once I arrived at the store though, I was quickly faced with a dilemma. (You can click on all the images to make them bigger to read)



I needed ingenuity quick!



Instead I ended up with this:



So I headed home defeated and hungry.

I convinced myself women in the past must have gone food shopping with a newborn, however I couldn't exactly recall ever seeing this take place and how it was managed.

Oh sure, I've seen this many times:



But putting The Bean in the child seat of the cart at her age would result in this:



I finally remembered I received a baby carrier as a gift. Aha! A hands-free baby carrying device. Exactly what I needed! Except when I put The Bean in and got myself situated, this happened:



Huh.

Turns out, that piece of equipment wasn't made to carry little pygmy children.

And so we starved and all died.

Actually, I went to the great guru Google and asked him what the hell. And he was all, "Dude, haven't you heard of the Moby? All the cool, hippie moms are doing it. You can put little pipsqueak children in it and go buy diapers AND ice cream--at the same time!"

The Moby is intimidating at first. Mainly because it looks like a giant sheet roughly the size of a school bus that you must somehow origami around yourself so it safely holds your child.

Lucky for me, the people who write the instructions on how to wrap a Moby are the same people who write the manuals for furniture assembly (a language I am fluent in...no, really). So on the first time out of the gate:



This is how I gained my freedom through a stupid piece of fabric.



I am a baby-wearing hippie and proud of it.

Hypocrite

Since Michael and I are not good people, we spent a good portion of our time at JazzFest passing judgment on the various characters one encounters at such events. Seriously, all walks of humanity show up.

Oh stop. You know you do it too. At least I'm admitting it.

One thing we homed in on was the inexplicable compulsion women had for buying, and wearing, clothing with horizontal stripes.

Women with beautiful bodies were flattened out and contorted with stripes and...well...those with less than perfect bodies were doing themselves no favors with the horizontal stripe.

There was nary a person we found who sported the stripe well.

This is not a new observation by any stretch of the imagination. Every woman (I thought) was bred to know that horizontal stripes=big, fat blob. I even mentioned my disdain for horizontal stripes in my previous post on the joys of bathing suit shopping whilst pregnant.

Speaking of bathing suit shopping, I finally broke down and went back to Pea in the Pod earlier this week to get a dreaded bathing suit as I will be spending this weekend floating belly up in a pool.

Do you know what kind of bathing suit I got?

Guess.

You're never going to guess.



KAPOW!

(No that is not me. I'm roughly 403 times her size.)

Doth my eye deceive me? Are those *gasp* horizontal stripes? On a bathing suit, no less?

Yes, *hangs head in shame* I admit it. I went and bought the very bathing suit I was railing against.

When I got home and showed Michael the suit he just gave me the look. The look we were giving the women all weekend long. The "I'm sorry no one told you that horizontal stripes are a cruel joke played by fabric designers around the world" look.

It really was the lesser of all evils amongst the suits I tried on. I think because the string bikini bottoms didn't push on my ever-expanding hips showcasing every last dimple of cellulite to the world. Or maybe I was too distracted by the stripes to care.

Either way. I'm officially that girl. The one who owns horizontal striped clothing.

Don't worry. I bought a giant white cover up--because white is known for its slimming abilities (oh wait, crap)--to go over the striped suit when I'm faced with actual sunlight where the sneaky horizontal stripes, who previously were looking cute and harmless in the dressing room mirror, unleash their gruesome disfiguring abilities for all to pass judgment on me.

Before and After

As a woman, one of my favorite things is the makeover. Whether it be a house renovation, a new hair style, weight loss...whatever.

Those before and after photos capture my imagination and let me know all can be right in the world if you have access to landscapers, plastic surgeons, zillions of dollars in cash for a new wardrobe or willpower--things I am woefully missing in my life, but I can dream.

Let me show you the power of before and after photos.

We'll start with the largest of our brood, Bear. A Great Pyrenees who received his first summer shave this past week.

Before:


And After:


They walked him out of the back room and I didn't recognize my own dog.

But we're not here to make fun of the lollipop pup. We're here to make fun of me. So, let's get on with it.

In a few almost every single post, I complain about how much my boobs have grown as a result of pregnancy. But I'm not quite sure you are all grasping the enormity (hah) of the situation.

While organizing my closets this past week (hello, nesting), I came across a most brilliant way to illustrate my troubles to you.

Before Pregnancy:


It's no secret that I've always sported a larger bosom than most, but here is a pre-pregnancy bra with my size 7 flip flops for a comparison (I had no appropriate fruit in the house to do comparisons). We'll call this the manageable stage of my life.

Pregnancy--Wave 1:


Here you'll see the flip flop has been dwarfed by the gargantuan circus tent I use to wrangle the ladies in each day.

Let's do a side by side comparison to drive home the effect:


There it is.

Oh wait! Did you notice the "Wave 1" designation next to the pregnancy bra photo? That's right kids. Where there's a Wave 1, there must be a Wave 2.

It was 90 degrees this weekend which meant the maternity jeans I've been sporting for the past 2 months are getting to be a little toasty. It was time to get the summer maternity gear.

While I was trying on every last thing in the store to find one item that didn't make me look enormous (a difficult task when one is 30 weeks pregnant), I came across a dress which required a bra style different than the ones I currently own.

Except I couldn't close the bras in "my size."

So...

Pregnancy--Wave 2:


I couldn't even fit the new bra in the camera screen. If you picture a parachute, then quadruple its size, you'll be close to what the new bras look like.

I didn't even know this particular bra size existed. They certainly don't carry it in the mainstream lingerie stores.

And the real rub of it all?

They're going to GROW AGAIN once my milk comes in.

It's a wonder I can stand up anymore.

Thar She Blows

It's getting to be the time of year most women with a healthy self-esteem loathe.

Bathing suit season.

I live in Atlanta; bathing suit season starts tomorrow. And as you may have surmised from reading a few posts...I'm pregnant. Can you imagine how much I'm looking forward to this?

There are a few cruel jokes played on pregnant women:

1. Swimming (or standing in water like an overgrown hippopotamus) is probably the best relief for a hot, sweaty pregnant woman carrying an extra [undisclosed] amount of weight on her frame


2. Swimming, in most places, requires one wear a bathing suit or else be arrested for indecent exposure and cruel and unusual punishment to all of humanity


3. Pregnancy hormones and pre-natal vitamins give your hair super-growth ability--yes, all your hair


4. When one is 7.5 months pregnant, one cannot see certain areas that might need some attention prior to wearing a bathing suit


5. Maternity bathing suit manufacturers are pure evil spawned from the copulation of Hitler and Mao Tse-Tung

One of my besties, Julie, and I spend roughly 800 hours a day on IM together. We're bonded through the same lack of desire to do our jobs, tendency to be distracted by anything and ability to turn even the simplest tasks into an epic journey of insurmountable obstacles and heroic feats of endurance.

While on her own monumental search for a bathing suit, Julie decided she would start looking for one for me as well. After being discouraged by the cruel jokes bathing suit makers play on all women (hello, Brazilian bikini) and the ever unhelpful tips from fashion magazines (sure, that style is great for the big hipped woman, but what about the big boobs, short torso, medium height, no butt, enormous hipped woman???), she decided to bring me into the hellhole of bathing suit shopping.

Julie is so off the Christmas card list.

I knew this was going to go nowhere fast when the conversation started like so:

Julie: OK. Give me your measurements: chest, waist and hips.

Jen: You're kidding, right? I can't fit a measuring tape around my chest, I haven't seen my waist in a month and my hips are spreading by feet each day.

Julie: Here's one. It's black, slimming and has good coverage.

Jen: You're telling me I need to wear a full outfit to go swimming in order to make people not puke when I show up.

Julie: (Undeterred by my attitude) No worries. Here's one. Cute design, a little sassy, but still has good coverage.

Jen: Um...that will not work with the 38DDs I'm sporting these days. Actually that was the measurement a few months ago. I can't even bear to know the size now.

Julie: OK. Now we're getting somewhere.

Jen: We are?

This goes back and forth for awhile and we find a few cute styles. But then, oh then Interwebs, we had to go the sizing charts.

These things are beyond idiotic. My pre-pregnancy size is apparently considered an XL. Really? I live in the South. I know what XL is. It is not me. And I'm pretty sure I'm not just living in a delusional dream. *deep breath* I was a size 10-12. Not petite, but certainly not an XL.

But it gets better.

Do you have any idea what size my boobs are considered on these charts? PLUS-SIZED 2X.

Plus-sized.

And that's when I was done swimsuit shopping.

A few tips to the maternity bathing suit manufacturers of the world:

• If it looks like it can double as a tennis outfit, circus tent or nightgown from the 60s, then it should not be made into a bathing suit


• Under no circumstances should a bathing suit have horizontal stripes. Ever.


• All 2-piece bathing suits need to be sold as separates--my boobs exploded three sizes while the rest of me is growing along at whatever normal pregnancy growth rates are


• PLEASE. For the love of all that is holy. Do not add insult to injury by making sizes common for women--particularly pregnant woman--hell, for ANY woman--a PLUS SIZE. I'm having enough body image issues without your input.

I hate everyone.

A Lose-Lose Situation

If you could just gouge my eyeballs out with a melon baller and shove lit dynamite in the empty sockets, I would greatly appreciate it.

I am in the registry/planning the nursery/can't put off buying things any longer phase of the pregnancy. Luckily this combines some of my favorite things like shopping for crap I have no interest in, spending ridiculous amounts of money for things that will last about a year and completely disassembling my house to find new places for the crap we've been storing in the "office/one day will be a nursery/mostly a place we hide the stuff we don't feel like putting away" room.

So I'm in a real healthy place right now.

One would think at least the registry part would be fun to do. "Look! You can go to a website, click things you need and other people buy it and send it to you."

I'm on hour 876 of attempting to create my registry. That's how well registering is going for me.

The one consistent piece of advice I have gotten from friends already in the mommy world is: Don't buy too much stuff. You don't use most of it. And less shopping is one piece of advice I whole-heartedly can get behind.

So I had a brilliant plan. BRILLIANT, I tell you!

I sent out an email to my closest girlfriends asking the following three questions:

1. What is the one item you couldn't possibly live without?
2. What handful of items were the biggest waste of money that you never use?
3. What do I have to, can't live without, simply must know when I'm setting up the nursery?

How streamlined of me, I thought foolishly. I'm going to have the world's most efficient nursery and can use the rest of the registry for things like All-Clad pans and Le Creuset pots.

Ha.

Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.

I received a 10-page missive back on the things I would be needing, the girlfriends' reviews of each item, about 10 billion contradictions on what I really need and don't need and links to 50 katrillion sites I should definitely check out before making any decisions.

OK...I'm playing this up for funny for sure. Well it really included all those things, but their information was beyond helpful. Unfortunately, I've fallen down the rabbit's hole of research and can't get out.

The process goes like this:

• Jen opens up Amazon to start registering for each and every item listed on the 10-page document
• First item: Car seat
• About to register for the 'approved by all moms' car seat when 10 emails come in about how car seat laws have just changed and now kids need to be in a rear-facing car seat until they are 35 years old.
• Old car seat recommendations no longer applies.
• Spend 3 hours reading every Amazon review on car seats.
• Decide I still can't make an informed decision so go register for Consumer Reports to read their 1,000 reviews on car seats.
• Ultimately determine no car seat is safe enough, comfortable enough, easy enough, car seat-y enough.
• Go back to original car seat recommended and register for the one made to hold a 35 year-old.

I wish I was making this up.

10 pages of this.

And this is just the registry...I STILL need to buy baby furniture. (Which I like to make infinitely more impossible by insisting it be eco-friendly AND cute--the nerve of me.)

We're at the point, where I'm considering leaving the dog crate in the nursery and using that as a 3-in-1 crib, changing table, storage unit.

An Open Letter

Dear Sir at Whole Foods,

Just because your wife is also in my "position;" actually let's stop there for a moment, shall we? I am not in a "position," "condition," "situation" or any other such word. I am pregnant.

Last I checked, this word was perfectly acceptable to say in mixed company. If you don't want me to shoot laser daggers into your brain with my thoughts, I suggest you refrain from equating my pregnancy with a terminal medical issue.

Moving on.

Just because your wife is also PREGNANT, you do not have the right to come up and interrupt my ice cream fairy tale dream. There I was in front of the ice cream freezers gleefully imagining how glorious that first bite of Rocky Road ice cream was going to taste. I was about to swan dive into a pool of chocolate, marshmallows and peanut-y goodness when you butted your big, fat nose in my business with "You should go buy a Vita-Mix blender and make your own ice cream. It's so easy and a lot healthier too."

I put up with you when you told me how I could make yogurt and fruit ice cream (um...it's called frozen yogurt, but you're clearly an idiot). Then when you started in on how home-made ice cream has less fat and sugar, I politely nodded and walked away from the ice cream aisle--ice creamLESS because you made me feel bad about feeding The Bean chocolate instead of fruit sorbet.

But I want you to know, I still hate you and here's what I should've said:

Hey @sshole. First off, I'll have you know I already own the Vita-Mix blender because I have an awesome husband who buys me ridiculously expensive kitchen gadgets so I can make our baby food when the time comes (and he gets awesome meals in the meantime).

AND I will have you know...it makes piss poor ice cream.

Want to know how I know?

Because I already make my own ice cream and it's LA BOMBA! I make a Mexican Chocolate Mole ice cream that would make you cry it's so good.

But you know what else? I'm freakin' pregnant and tired because I'm all sorts of busy working, food shopping and growing a baby and if I feel like buying a pint of Haagen-Dazs maybe you should just back off and save the preaching for when you're six months pregnant and churning ice cream in your kitchen. I might consider listening to you at that point.

I eat ice cream maybe four times a year. Sure, I eat it a little more often now that I'm the host body for a sugar fanatic, but I still have only eaten one pint of ice cream this entire pregnancy (six months of it). So if I want to buy a pre-made ice cream because it's PRE-MADE, maybe you should mind your business and let the pregnant lady do what she wants.

I only wish your PREGNANT wife was there to witness this because I'm pretty sure she would've slapped you upside the head and started calling you some unseemly names in the middle of the store. She probably wants to right now anyway since you're going to go home and have her make someone in your "condition" (read: stupid) some ice cream.

If there's one rule when talking with a pregnant woman--and in particular one you don't know--it's NEVER tell her what she should and shouldn't be eating. You could seriously lose your manhood pulling that kind of stunt.

Up yours,
Mrs. D-Zo

Note: Chivalry is Still Dead

Since my trip to Boston this week was so traumatic, I made it a point to head to the grocery store as soon as I got home. I stocked up on big leafy greens, quinoa, apples, dried apricots and other assorted poop-blasting fiber foods. Damned if I'm going to get clogged up again.

And boy, was I pleased as punch with my shopping experience.

People were stepping aside for me, helping me grab the heavier items off the shelves, unloading my cart for me. Come on...you know it's nice to feel special now and again.

I ran home to tell Michael how pleasant my shopping experience was. And how nice it is to have people finally be able to see I'm pregnant and not just a potato chip junkie.

Here's how that conversation panned out:

Me: Wow. What a great trip. Pregnant ladies do get all the perks. I had guys rushing to help me left and right. It was really sweet.

Michael: [Being the ever-skeptical man...] Was it all guys or both women and men?

Me: Well, now that I think of it, it was all men. But whatever. They were very nice. [Does a little swirl in the new cute dress which I believe shows off my barely there baby bump.] And all because I'm pregnant.

Michael: [Eye-balling dress which he realizes shows off my ridiculously gargantuan boobs and doesn't even register the baby bump.] I don't think it had anything to do with you being pregnant...

I Don't Need Maternity Clothes...

Let me start by sharing a little fact about me: I hate shopping. Despise. Boiling abhorrence. Would rather stick pencils in my eyeballs and light them on fire than have to go shopping.

Like most women, I may have some body image issues. For example, when I'm fatter than I would like to be, I feel bad about how my body looks. Weird, right? My husband once found me in the women's section of Macy's bawling because everything I tried on was tight and made me look like a prize heifer.

This leads me to wear my clothes into the ground before I can bear facing the stores again.

Now I'm not just telling you this because it's confessional time and it's too expensive to see a therapist. Today I was at the breaking point and forced myself to go to the mall before all my clothes disintegrated off my body. Have I mentioned I'm pregnant? Oh yes, this was a trip I was really looking forward to.

I entered Macy's and gave myself a pep talk, "Take it slow and focus on tops first. You already know you need a large because your boobs exploded everywhere. We can worry about pants and dresses afterwards."

Oh, another awesome trait about me when shopping: I have completely unrealistic expectations regarding what works well on my body, which colors should be paired together and how different cuts make me look stunning and others like a bloated hippopotamus--and my inexplicable need to buy the latter.

I started off with a shirt and sweater combo that I thought went really well together, but I'm not to be trusted, so I found a saleslady to see if I was crazy. Turns out I actually paired things together that were meant to be together. Score one.

But then I spied a pair of jeans. I desperately needed new jeans. But jeans shopping could completely torpedo an entire day of shopping. "These look miserable; I'm never shopping again; bring on the fried chicken." So what did I do?

I picked up the jeans. In a size larger than what I normally wear since, after all, I'm pregnant and things are shifting around.

Guys, guess what???

I did it! I assembled an entire outfit that looked pretty good and I didn't want to smash the fitting room mirrors and burn the place down.

So then I got confident.

Oops.

I've mentioned my boobs before...you know, the enormous, gargantuan beasts that have taken over my entire body.

When it came time to try on dresses, we hit a slight snag. And by slight I mean enormous. There I was in a size [omitted by author: let's just say it was SIX sizes bigger than what I normally wear] and unable to make the dress fit over my boobs while I was swimming in the rest of the dress.

The hyperventilating was starting.

Five dresses later and nary a style, fabric or color was helping matters.

This was clearly not working well for me. And last I checked, there was not a porn star store in the mall where they cater to women of unique proportions.

But then it hit me. There was one store that might be able to help. But I swore I was not going to go there until my pants were popping open and all my tops became half shirts due to the unstoppable growth of my belly. Dare I do it?

Well, I did need to get a bella band anyway, so I could go pick that up and check to see if they had dresses that might work with size 800ZZZ boobs.

3 dresses later and I'm pleased as punch.

Screw it all. *I* don't technically need maternity clothes yet, but my boobs sure as hell do.