A number of years ago, my mother bought a light blue dress with a pattern of yellow flowers that was a little too small on her. Fortunately, it was way too big for me. I used to wear it a lot in the summer of 1999, when I was trapped in hot, punishing Toronto with no air-conditioning. It's remarkably light and really really big, so I got a lot of airflow under the dress. On really hot days, when I wasn't seeing anyone but the Boy, I wouldn't even wear underwear.

My mother always said that the dress made me look slatternly, like the oldest Ewell girl in To Kill A Mockingbird. There were many comments about busting up chiffarobes. But she laughed when she said it.

Now that I'm pregnant, my mornings are like a game show. Whenever I reach for something bought before the maternity phase, I feel like I'm spinning a big pegged wheel. Will it go on or won't it?! A lot of my clothes don't fit, and trying to put them on is like a ludicrous obstacle challenge. 'It goes over the head. Will her arms fit? One...two...oh, it's too short to cover her Belly. She's Strugging Out,* folks! Better luck next time, Ms. Rocketbride!' I fold up those clothes and put them away with a curiously light heart. It feels kind of nice to discard chunks of your wardrobe, no longer having to wonder if you look good in them. They don't fit, they don't stay. QED.

There are some clothes hovering on the border. I can squeeze into most of my babydoll t-shirts, but there better be a damn high waistline to accompany it, or I'm Strugging Out again. My absolute, absolute favourite maternity shirt comes from Roman Dirge; in it, a Lenore-like little girl stares creepily at the viewer under the words, 'I mate, then kill.' It's funny enough when you're not pregnant; when you're obviously knocked up it's the most hilarious thing ever. Men cower. Women laugh.

Then there's the third category, the one that makes me feel like I won the car AND the dinette set: clothes that look much better on me now that I'm pregnant. It's a very weird category. My white bridal nightgown is in there, along with a navy tunic I bought when I was 19 that has looked dowdy on me for years. And this light blue dress is in there. This is certainly the height of inertia talking, but there's something enormously comforting about getting up in the morning and just putting on a big ol' dress. Presto: I can answer the door. I can walk by the picture window in the front room without worrying that the people across the street are laughing at my amazingly Venus of Wilendorf body. I don't have to fuss with maternity pants or formerly big t-shirts that pull tight across my Belly. I can just do my thang.

Hmm. I suppose it IS pretty slatternly, when it comes right down to it.

Wheee! Male Crazy Neighbour is MOVING OUT!!!! All of his crap is currently sitting on the driveway, looking forlorn. The Boy is drinking a beer & watching out the window with a bag of Doritos in his lap. This is the best entertainment we've had in ages!

Even better, Peter came by for the next set of rent cheques. This may not seem monumental to you, but it is a HUGE weight off my mind. I was half-afraid that he'd use our deposit as this month's rent & kick us out right before school started again. For months I've been waffling about a birth plan, because I had no idea if we'd be able to live in Toronto (and have a home birth) or if we'd be in Brampton (and have a hospital birth). It was so important, and so stressful. I just couldn't bear to think about it most days.

But now we can leave on our terms; move into my parents' house at the end of the year. The two sweetest words in the English language: our terms! Our! Terms! Our! Terms! Our! Terms! Our! Terms! Our! Terms!

And the baby will be born in my blue bedroom! I don't have to worry about being apart from her/him in the first few hours! I don't have to worry about being treated like a patient (a.k.a. a brainless rodent). Hee hee hee! S/he's thrashing about in joy as I write this...or maybe s/he's just happy that I finally ate lunch an hour ago. Hard to tell.

* Strugging Out: a term coined recently to describe the appearance of Wallace at Poet's wedding (i.e. wearing a shirt too small for him, so that the lower part of his belly was uncovered.) Palaver always reacts with bemused horror whenever I use this term to describe myself, as he is obviously firmly sold on the beauties of pregnancy vs. the beauties of Wallace.

This month's design owes a heavy debt to the Retrobats font from The Blue Vinyl Café & Fontdinerdotcom Loungy from The Font Diner. Swingin'!

Booty Call: Day 151 - Your baby can hear your heartbeat and sounds of digestion.