Wedding Dress.

You might remember I bought my wedding dress when I was in my second trimester (just starting it). I picked this particular dress because, for one, I loved it, and also because it was forgiving enough to accommodate whatever my post-baby body decided to be.

I was back to my pre-pregnancy weight a month after she was born. No, I'm not bragging. And if you're jealous might I remind you that my rapid weight-loss had a lot to do with being too sick to eat and throwing up a lot and having multiple colonscopies with two days of fasting and, you know, having Crohn's Disease. I don't recommend this weight loss plan.

But still, none of my old clothes fit me the same. They probably never will again. And the thing is, I don't really care so much. I've heard people say this a lot, and I've always secretly rolled my eyes at the sentiment, but I'm genuinely more proud of my body now than I ever thought I would be. Because I saw a baby come out of it. Screw a perfect stomach.

I got to try on my dress today to get it fitted. Like I said, I picked this dress because it flowed away from my stomach. I forgot that there's a corseted sheath underneath. Dear god the seamstress didn't forget, though. She laced me in that thing so tight that I'm pretty sure a nine-month-pregnant woman could hide her bump.

Addy came with us, of course. Luckily my mom was there to help out, but I still wanted to grab her so many times while the seamstress tucked away every last alteration. (She was fussing. Reflux.) But my mom took over so I could avoid getting her recently ultra-chunky spit up on my wedding dress.

You better believe I'll be holding her during the wedding and reception, though. Does anyone make a formal burp rag? I need to get on the search.

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Insatiable hunger and buttoning my pants.

I have been insatiably hungry recently, and I'm not saying that lightly. I literally CANNOT stop eating. On Wednesday, my day off, I did nothing except sit around and read and relax. And eat. And eat. And eat. The only thing that could stop me was sleep, so when I finally drifted off to slumber I instead dreamt about what I would eat next. And then I woke up at 11 p.m. for work and made a sandwich. I haven't been this hungry since the first time I was put on Prednisone--I was 14, weighed under 80 pounds, and found myself in throes of steroid-induced hunger eating 9--no exaggeration--grilled cheese sandwiches in a row.

None of my clothes fit. None of them. And I know I'm not supposed to care, because it's the miracle of life and some women can't even have babies and kids are dying in Africa but, I'm sorry, I sort of do. Society can't just expect us to turn off our I'm-getting-fat switch because we're pregnant. The human (and hormonal) mind doesn't work like that.

No matter how excited I am about this child, it doesn't erase the frustration of trying to find something to wear when none of your pants will button and even your stretchiest leggings feel like a cruel torture device.

My stomach is still somewhere in the etherworld between chub and with-child. I don't feel confident enough in my bump to let it all hang out, because, to me, it just looks like I'm bloated beyond belief.

I broke down a few weeks ago and ordered two pairs of maternity jeans but they still haven't arrived, and after searching through my inbox I couldn't find a confirmation e-mail and am now wondering if I ever even ordered them at all. I know I was at work when I did it, and it was maybe 4 in the morning. I swear it wasn't a mirage. But my closet still lacks anything that truly fits.

Being pregnant so far feels a lot like that hour after Thanksgiving dinner. You've stuffed your face beyond belief, and suddenly you're aware of every single seam in every single article of clothing on your body. Your breath feels stiffled by the fullness. Even unbuttoning your pants doesn't fully remedy the discomfort. The only true remedy is another piece of pie.

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