Yes, it’s the blog title so good, I had to use it twice.
Once again, G uttered these lines upon the arrival of a Next package containing my new pair of maternity Jeans. (You can see why I keep him on.)
Unfortunately, if there were a competition to find the most heinous example of a denim product ever owned by womankind, these jeans might be in with a fighting chance. I admit that I’m a real cheapskate when it comes to maternity clothes, so I bought these for a bargain basement price in the Next online sale, but they were woefully mislabelled as “skinny maternity jeans“. What has actually arrived in the post is something called “relaxed skinny maternity jeans“. What is “relaxed skinny” when it’s at home? If Next ever think about labelling their products in plain English, I’d suggest re-naming these ones “Mum jeans, circa 1986“.
They have that special unflattering leg shape, in which there are acres of loose fabric at the top of the leg, tapering to a closer fit at the ankle, which remains too bulky to tuck comfortably inside your knee-high boots but too tight to stretch over them. Top result, Next! On top of that, the upper half of each leg is covered in glued-on beads. (For the love of god, why??)
After a brief debate as to the relative merits of sending them back vs giving in to the style vacuum, I tried them on and decided that the stretchy waistband was supremely comfy enough to wear on days when I don’t have to see anyone… so they’re now reserved for Xbox-loafing and/or allotment visits. I christened them at the allotment on Sunday and improved them dramatically by getting them caked in mud.
Suffice to say, this grainy and poorly-lit bump-pic does nothing to show off how bad these jeans are…
In related news, it’s FREEZING! And I need to moan about my clothes. Tights are driving me to distraction at the moment. Maternity ones have a huge stretchy tummy section, which makes them comfy, but also means that they refuse to stay up. You can walk about 20 paces before the crotch starts creeping halfway down your legs. It’s a hopeless cause – like trying to get something to stay up on an egg. Ordinary tights will at least stay up, but the waistband rolls down under the bump and leaves your belly freezing and your nether regions garroted. (Someone really needs to invent a new type of maternity tights that attach to the underside of your bra, to make them stay up).
Also my coat no longer does up properly and I’m too mean to spend money on a maternity coat. So I’ve started to resemble a walking bundle of weeble-shaped knitwear on my daily commute. I’m not sure whether anyone can tell that there’s someone in there, under the pile-up of hats, scarves and cardigans. I was astonished today that a lady was able to discern my bump under all of that and offer me her seat.
On that topic, I am reminded from last time that that there are two specific categories of people on London Underground who will offer their seat to a woman with a bump.
- Men and boys under 25
- Women over 35
(Anyone outside of these categories suffers from a special form of narcolepsy in which the sight of a bump makes them fall asleep instantly in their seats.)
In Microbe news, he is still hugely enamoured of the baby sister concept and insists on cuddling my tummy several times a day and talking to the baby. Bless. He’s also very impatient for her to be born, but I hope he makes the most of these last few months of undivided attention.
Recently we’ve started to read him chapter books at bedtime. Unlike his usual picture books, these are primarily text, with just the occasional monochrome picture, and they involve waiting until the next night to carry on the story. G decided to start him off with one of the thinner stories from a Roald Dahl box set. They’re possibly a bit old for him but he did seem to enjoy Fantastic Mr Fox. I need to have a think about what other books might be good for his age group.
He does still love his picture books and sometimes, even with the chapter books, I wander past his door after we’ve said goodnight and see him sitting up in bed leafing through the book, to see the pictures of the “actors”, as he calls them. It warms the cockles of my heart… I wonder if he will turn into a late night bookworm like I was, once he learns to read.