Pants!

I'm about 5' 8.5". When I tell people that, they always look at me and say, "Oh, that's not that tall," and then I give them this short lecture:

About ten years ago, the National Center for Health Statistics conducted a survey, finding that the average height for an adult woman between the ages of 20 and 29 was 5' 3.8". (I looked up the survey info just for this blog post. Feel special.) This makes me about 5 inches taller than the average woman, which, if you think about it, is almost half a foot. Therefore, I am that tall.

(Incidentally, the survey found the average height for an adult man of the same age group to be 5' 9.2", which makes wearing high heeled shoes on dates highly awkward and impractical for me. It's unfortunate because, as a friend in high school who went on to become third runner-up for Miss Hawaii once told me, I actually have really nice legs.)

These are the facts that I must face when I go shopping for pants. The problems don't stop there, though. I've often surmised when shopping in stores, that designers must think women who are tall have 50% more leg fat than the rest of the population. I can't tell you how often I've tried on a pair of 12 Long pants in the dressing room, only to find that while they fit perfectly around the waist, there is enough room in the butt and thigh to fit another one of me!

My solution came two years ago when I went into the Old Navy on State and Washington in Chicago. Not wanting to waste my time looking for something that wasn't there, I walked straight up to the tallest employee I could find and said, "My kingdom for a pair of Long pants that fit!" She didn't miss a beat.

"Here's what you do," she said. "We don't consistently carry our products in Long, but besides length, there's no difference in how our Long pants and Average pants fit. Shop around the store and find some pants that you like, try them on to find your best size and style, and then go to oldnavy.com and order them with the right inseam."

I could have hugged her. I did what she suggested, and when I got online, discovered that in addition to carrying Long inseams, they have a Tall section, where you can get longer shirts, skirts and dresses as well! (Just a heads up, there's a huge difference between "Long" and "Tall." If you order the Tall inseam, order a size up.) Ever since then, when I want a new pair of pants, I just go online! I find something that looks cute, order it, and it fits perfectly! And that's how the story ends, or so I thought...

College makes you gain weight. No question about that. So before my first trimester of pregnancy was over, I needed new jeans, desperately. I made due for several months just wearing lounge pants (also from Old Navy) and skirts most of the time, but I really needed a new pair of jeans. I looked everywhere, but not only were Long maternity pants lacking, so were the maternity sections themselves. I stopped looking for it when I went into a store. I'd just find an employee and ask if they had one.

I did find an excellent maternity section at Kohl's, and made out like a bandit thanks to my Aunt Marie, who had Kohl's Bucks and various coupons she wasn't going to use but, still no Long pants. Finally, it dawned on me. I hadn't checked Old Navy.

Old Navy has an entire maternity section online. The clothes run a bit too big, but knowing that has made shopping for new clothes a piece of cake. I just order a size down. I now have two pair of Long maternity jeans, not to mention some adorable shirts and a pair of comfy burmudas. I've also discovered the Roll-Over Jersey Skirts, which have no elastic and are nice and stretchy to accomodate the ever-growing me.

So in summary, Old Navy rocks!

It Has Begun (doom!)

Yesterday and today were good days. I got up at a reasonable hour (quite early for me, actually, before 8), got around and going, and spent almost the entire day out doing things. But today, sometime between washing windows at Grandma's and the Relay for Life team meeting (my aunt heads up Team Zebra, ironically enough), I hit a mood bump.

I was pulling up my pants in the bathroom when I noticed in the mirror, the first of the fresh purple stripes. (I wish there were a good word to describe it. "Blossoming" sounds like something so pleasant and delightful, but "eruption" or "outbreak" would be too strong.) An hour later I discovered another stretch mark forming, going right up the side of my stomach. Maybe it's because I went from doing very little to doing very much in a short period of time that it happened so suddenly. I must admit, ever since these discoveries, I've been just a little depressed.

I blame my mother. She blames her father. I never got to find out who he blamed. I've been using so much lotion since I've become pregnant, knowing that it would be coming, hoping maybe I could be spared. I've mentioned before that I have a lot of stretch marks already just from growing too fast for my skin. Now that it's started again, I feel very unpretty.

(This is not a time for you to get all touchy-feeley, "Oh, but you ARE pretty," trying to make me feel better by telling me all sorts of nice things. My emotions have nothing to do with what everyone else thinks. It's how I feel, and I'll get over it shortly.)

Hundreds of thoughts are buzzing around my head. "I need to find a stretch mark cream that doesn't feel oily." "All the scars I got in middle-school are still visible. These will take so long to go away." "Now I'll never look great in a bikini." "What if he no longer finds me attractive?"

The bikini one might be the most depressing, honestly. I grew up on a mission center, and a one piece was the only option up until college. By that time, I was too self-conscious to actually wear a two-piece. Not to mention the fact that I have a hard time finding bathing tops that fit me.** I finally found one that suited me, but never wore it because I couldn't find a bottom I liked. So I've never actually worn a two-piece in public. And now... (I refuse to wear a two-piece to the beach now. Lots of things happen on the beach that shouldn't. I will not be one of them.) When I'm back to normal size again, I'll be the sexiest purple-striped zebra-fish in the sea. *slump*

I fully intend to wallow in my depression for the rest of the night, possibly in the morning also, depending on how many more marks I find when I get up. You can't stop me. Then I plan on getting over it, buying stretch-mark cream (we all remember the Bio-Oil was a fail), and moving on with my life. As long as no one tries to interfere with the coping process, everyone will be fine.


**That could be a rant in itself. Why don't bathing suits come in cup sizes, instead of "small, medium, and large?" Also, I've overwhelmed every halter top I've ever tried on. I can't wait for the halter fad to die so that I can buy a new bathing suit. Before my maternity suit (remarkably similar to my "normal" suit, found at Target), I've used the same suit since I was a freshman in high school, because it's the only one that's ever "held me in." The world is unkind to busty women.

Makeover!

It was time to update the background. I tried the new blogger template designer thingy and I like the results. The only problem I have is that there are a lot of options, so I'll probably be changing it again (and again and again) over the next few days. "Where she stops? Nobody knows!"

I actually wish I could upload a picture that I've taken into the background, but no such luck yet. At least, I've not figured out how.

I considered for a brief time, changing the name of my blog, since I'm actually no longer in college. But I started this thing in college, and I plan on auditing a class next semester (Mandarin 101!), so it's staying.

Really nothing about this blog looks collegiate or adolescent, but hey! Pregnancy is supposed to be a transitional phase, right?

Melodrama

Every day I am astonished at the number of young, unwed mothers around me. The last time I went to Meijer, I saw at least five. Six, if you count when I went down that aisle with all the mirrors. I guess I just never noticed them before.

It reminds me of when my parents and I were traveling through Pennsylvania when I was in middle school. There was a gas station robbery one town over from where our hotel was. The offenders were last seen exiting the scene in a white, unmarked van. You would be amazed at how many white, unmarked vans are on the highway! It was kind of creepy, actually...

Not that seeing young mothers around me is creepy, but you know what I mean.

You know what? As the song says, "Pregnant Women are Smug," (Garfunkel and Oats). Particularly, young unwed ones. This came to my attention last week when I went for another 1 hour glucose test. (I've not heard from the doctor's office, so another 3 hour test is not in order as far as I know.) I'd been waiting for about 15 minutes when an extremely pregnant girl and her friend came in. They couldn't have been much older than 12 or 13. My first impulse was to be protective of this girl, who must be so terrified and confused, from the little old ladies across the room who were looking at her like fresh gossip meat. Within five minutes, that impulse completely disappeared. She kept on looking at her belly and sighing, waiting to see if someone would notice. When someone did notice, she did her best to look as uncomfortable as possible, at which point her friend would say something like, "Are you having a contraction?" (she wasn't) or "I just can't believe there's a life inside of you!"

(I'm not putting down people who like to discuss the miracle of life, but saying the same phrase 20 times in a short period of time does not qualify as deep thought.)

From what I've observed in the last few weeks, four out of five young, unwed mothers are melodramatic. From the busty blonde buying hair-dye to the bursting-at-the-seams teen in pajama pants, all display airs as if their lives are just so much nobler than everyone else's and no one could possibly understand.

I have no problem admitting the fact that I'm judgmental. But if you ever see me put on airs like that, feel free to hit me.

Baby Says Jump

Lately I’ve been observing, with increasing curiosity, the miraculous little being inside of me. I wake up in the morning to the indescribable sensation of her little body stretching, growing, and dancing... on my bladder. Every day she gets stronger, and in the mornings she’s difficult to ignore. The problem isn’t just that I’ll wake up to her kicking my insides. After I get up to relieve myself, she keeps kicking. I have a feeling that early mornings are about to be a regular thing for me. What I don’t understand, what is truly miraculous about this child, is how she knows that it’s 6:00 in the morning without having windows...

God is up there smirking right now, and if you’ve ever tried to wake me in the morning, you know why.

I’m beginning to see little tendencies here and there. I can tell the difference between a kick and a hiccup, a “hello” kick and an “I’m not happy” kick (it’s rather like the difference between a pat on the back and a dope slap, just in the lower abdomen and from the inside), and a dance and a squirm. Dances are the best, and usually happen when I’m playing music for her (I put an earbud in my belly button—genius). Squirms amuse me, are usually accompanied by annoyed kicks, and happen most often when I play Mozart. (Irony?)

Baby also has this curious tendency to be completely quiet and behaved whenever her (very dutiful and responsible) father is around. Maybe it’s just me, but it really seems like, no matter how hard she is kicking beforehand, the instant I say, “Mengyao, want to feel the baby?” she stops. Meng thinks this behavioral trait is going to continue post-partum.

Besides the little one’s constant growing, there is really not a whole lot going on. My main source of income is being a professional granddaughter (they pay me to take them places), I‘ve managed to keep my room tidy on a daily basis, the nursery is more like a room where things are getting shoved, and last Monday we shaved the dog. Not much excitement… except for the dog.

Well, I just saw the mailwoman leave a box on our doorstep (my new room’s location has it’s advantages), which means that my package is here! (There’s something exciting. I cashed in some banking points for an Old Navy gift card and bought some more maternity stuff. My next post will probably be about pants.) I’m going to go see what the magic mailwoman has brought me!

The Name Game

Greetings from a cool and comfortable basement! I'm in Chicago hanging out with my (handsome and much missed) boyfriend for the weekend. It's been nice to relax, see some friends, and generally chill out without worrying about having to do the laundry or let the dog outside. Mengyao's parents have been in and out with work, but I've spent the better part of today with them and have enjoyed getting to know them a lot better. After some (long awaited) meaningful discussion, I have determined that the Liang's are normal people who live pretty normal lives and want what's best for everyone.

(This is a discovery I've made with great relief. I can be honest and say I was afraid that the more they got to know me, the less they would be open to me. While most people will say that I am a great person and very easy to get along with, they will also tell you that I chose one of the least profitable careers in the country, that I am not a stellar cook or housekeeper, and that I am decidedly not Asian.)

The name discussion is being tackled head on at the moment. Top picks are (in alphabetical order): Alexis, Bridget, and Emma. The middle name (Chinese name) will be chosen by Mengyao's parents. For a while we thought we had all of this sorted out. Alexis and Emma both go very well with Liang, but I have to say that Bridget is a name close to my heart that I've always loved it. Alexis is a name that my (willing to compromise) boyfriend prefers over Bridget, but we find that both of us really like the name Emma. My parents prefer the name Emma also.

When the topic was breached with Meng's parents, we hit a snag. When Meng and I left the house to go see Shrek 3 (it was pretty good; I cried), Emma was the top pick. When we returned however, it had been discovered in our absence that the name "Emma" sounds rather like the Chinese phrase for, "Oh my gosh!" The name, therefore, has fallen slightly out of favor in the eyes of Meng's parents. Mengyao says it doesn't matter because in Chinese company we will call her by her Chinese name. I now want to call her Emma more than ever.

Opinions?

Piranha Conversation Outtakes

I tend to see things in a rather satirical light. There are those among you who have been there when my edit button slipped...

I tend to not say all the things that I’m thinking. It’s better that way because half of my thoughts are along the lines of “your face” and “your mom.” (The truth is, actually, that most people don’t say all the things they’re thinking. Imagine, if you will, the President of the United States in the middle of his speech suddenly announcing to the press room how he desperately needs to pee. The funny thing is that everyone always says “I don’t say all the things I think,” as if it’s some great revelation or that they’re different from everyone else.) The problem is that I’m an external processor, and when I’m thinking something really powerful, it swims around inside of me like a piranha, eating up all the useful thoughts and dominating my tank of existence.

It’s funny what people will accidently say to a pregnant woman. Many of you know me as rather unforgiving with speech, and the fact is that until I have published this somewhere, it’s going to destroy my inner being. So here, arranged according to the amount of reaction I’ve had to suppress, are the things that people have accidently said, and the things that I haven’t said back.

7. "You just don't look pregnant to me."
This is usually said by people who see me on a day to day basis. It’s funny because, I feel pregnant. I remember once someone said this to me right after I pulled a round ligament as I was hobbling to class and clutching my side. Additionally, my clothes don’t fit, so every time someone says this to me (like the former co-worker I ran into yesterday) all I hear is, “Haven’t you always been that fat?"

6. "Are you sure it’s not twins?"
This one gets a blank stare. Between a three sonograms and two ultrasounds, I’m fairly certain there is only one bun in the oven. Thank you for your concern.

5. "Do you know who the father is?"
This is usually said by people who don’t know me very well, but it still makes me feel a little disappointed. I mean, I understand that being an unwed mother-to-be does not exactly spell out “pillar of virtue,” but most people have seen me walking around holding hands with this (charming and courteous) Asian guy, so it would follow that the (before mentioned charming and courteous) Asian guy would be the father… unless of course all Asians look alike to you, which may lead you to believe that I sleep around with a lot of Asians. If that’s the case, then I’d say you are the one with the problem.

4. "You know, so-and-so got pregnant in college, and…"
I think that this is an effort to make me feel like the speaker identifies with my situation. It’s a very nice gesture, but it really just makes them sound like a bad conversationalist. I really don’t care to hear how your friend/acquaintance/distant relative was left by her boyfriend/ostracized by her family/later arrested for drug use… unless of course you have some sage piece of wisdom to share in relation to this experience. No? Okay then. Stop talking.

3. "I'm not judging you."
Oh, yes you are. This statement is usually coupled with a very concerned and “understanding” look, and is often followed by…

2. "I just want you to know that Jesus loves you.”
I genuinely get annoyed at this one. I try not to, but here’s the thing: I grew up at a mission center. I attended Christian schools from kindergarten to my senior year, and I spent the majority of my summers visiting holiness camp meetings and going to a minimum of two church services a day. Now, I am not the first to pick up on things, but you’d think somewhere in my childhood I would have gathered that Jesus loves me. I actually had someone sit me down last month (literally led me to a bench and sat me down) and give me a formulaic five minute salvation sermon complete with a personal life story and an analogy—all because I told them I was pregnant. I guess the annoying thing is that each person says it like they’re the only person in the world who’s ever said it to me, or that people who know about Christ’s love don’t sin. Pfft.

And taking the place of number one (drum roll, please)…

1. "Does the father know?"
Okie dokie… “I think that you’re a great person and all, and I have no problem sharing this information with you, mostly because I’m not keeping it a secret, but you don’t seem to even know my boyfriend’s name. What makes you think I’d tell you before I told him?” Of course, that would be terrible and I’d never say that, but I think it, (usually) as I talk to two or more acquaintances without hushed tones in a public place. No, I just smile and tell them, “He knew before I did.” That opens up the opportunity for me to say all sorts of wonderful things about my (incredibly intuitive and level-headed) boyfriend, and the people leave feeling great about the (apparently very close) friendship we share because I’ve confided in them.


Now that I've sufficiently purged my mind of these thought consuming rampage-etts, perhaps I can put down Pratchett's Discworld series and dive into something a little more intellectual. Doubtful, but we'll give it a shot.