There really is no such of a thing as a lightening-fast drive-by in Motherhood Maternity. Their definition of clever merchandising is "pack the precious pouchy-fronted fashions in that joint so tight and so maze-like that an 80 lb. female track star with a minor in ballet couldn't get through the racks quickly or gracefully, much less a clumsy, lumbering pregnant woman carrying an extra 45 pounds and a purse-full of Tums."
A-yep. That there's how they get you.
You can't rush by the racks with eyes averted - you have to actually look at all the cuteness in order not to become hopelessly entangled in the sweet little bow-tie tails on the back of all-things empire-waisted and poofy-sleeved.
And that's how I ended up in the dressing room trying on two armloads of gargantuan pink dresses, tops, and barrel-wasted capris, and one brown and turquoise (OHMYGRANNY I'M HYERVENTILATING JUST THINKING ABOUT IT AGAIN) two-piece maternity swimsuit, through the leg-holes of which you could easily drive a Vee-Dubbya Bug. NOT KIDDING, PEOPLE.
Actually this was my second couple of armloads full, this batch that included the ill-fated (foreshadowing!) swimsuit, and thus the husband and Bean had run themselves out of things to look at in the WHOLE MALL and had returned to my current location to
How is it that one head of hair can simultaneously laminate itself to your head AND stand up to form a perfect geosphere?
I greeted the family and they found a chair to perch themselves upon while I tried on the remainder of the clothing and modeled the few of them that didn't make me look like Henrietta Hippo from The New Zoo Review. By the time I'd gotten to the bottom of those two armloads and was attempting to summon the courage it'd take me to stuff myself into the swimsuit, Bean was IN the dressing room with me, asking me the requisite 400 blue-billion questions in a row that began with What's Dat, Mama? and ended with And can I slide down the frog's tongue at the poo'(l) when I go dere fer my swimmin' lessons when it gets hot ousside TOOOOOOOOO? Puh-leeeeeeeeease?
And I answered and pulled and tugged. Tugged and pulled. Squoze, pinched, puckered and gasped my way into that swimsuit. Took one look at myself and quickly decided I'll be wearing SHORTS and a SHIRT to the poo' this year.
Or perhaps capris. And a refrigerator box.
And that's when it happened. I began wrestling myself back out of the swimsuit and had gotten a very great majority of it off of me when Bean decided DADDY needed to give his opinion. In slow motion (I see a lot of things in slow motion now that I have a three-year old. Why IS that?) I saw her little Beanie-hand reach out to grasp the flimsy dressing-room curtain and felt the cold breeze upon my vast expanses of pasty white nakedness as she WHISKED that curtain aside, announcing with glee, TAA DAAAAAAAAAAA! WOOK AT DISSSS! Whereupon I did my very best roly-poly impression, hunching over in a motion so quick it was nearly imperceptable, while retracting all four awkward limbs into my thorax and attempting to make everything but my buck-naked back disappear behind my legs.
Of course Al sprung into action, tossing aside some essential manual for accountants he was
I heard some
You know, I bet that lady doesn't even HAVE a blog.