Did I miss anything?
He kept trying to help, but no matter what he did, it wasn’t helping. On the days he made dinner, he left the counter dirty and loads of pots and pans in the sink. On the days he completed projects around the house, he was busy for so long she felt abandoned. On the days he stayed nearby she felt smothered. When he said to wake him up whenever she wanted him to feed the baby, she knew she’d be awake anyway, listening to him feed the baby, so what was the point? When he asked if he could pick anything up at the store on his way home, she couldn’t think of anything she needed. He kept trying to help, but she didn’t feel like he was much help at all.
He tried a new tactic. “Tell me what you need”, he said. She had to think. What DID she need?
As ridiculous as it seems, she didn’t really know what she needed. All she knew was that she needed to feel better.
She worked to organize her thoughts so she could come up with a response. Even though it was difficult for her to do, she made attempts to start telling him when she needed something. She noticed that he became infinitely more helpful.
One day, she pulled in the driveway, with the kids loaded in the back seat. He greeted her at the car and looked at her face, at her drawn mouth, at her tired eyes.
But her quivering lips betrayed her.
“Something must be wrong”.
She wanted to tell him what was wrong, but was coming up blank when she tried to think of what exactly it was that was so bad. She had no legitimate complaints. She knew she couldn’t say “nothing” again, so she said the first thing that popped into her head.
“I don’t have time to get anything done”.
“What needs to get done?”
“All I’ve done today is change diapers and feed the kids and the kitchen is a mess”.
She realized that she didn’t answer his question, but couldn’t think of what to say about what it might be she wanted to get done that she wasn’t able to do. She hastily added the only thing she could think of that resembled a reasonable answer to his question, “And I didn’t have time to go for a jog”.
Ah ha. Something he could work with. Something he could help with.
“You’re the only one who thinks you don’t have enough time to do anything. Go work out”. With that, he grabbed the kids and the diaper bag and when she opened her mouth to protest that there wasn’t time, he looked at her and repeated firmly, “Go workout. Go”.
Instead of arguing, as she was often quick to do, she took him up on his offer to watch the kids while she went for a short run. As she was jogging, she realized that he helped her in a way she didn’t always acknowledge, or even consciously remember, that she needed help with.
She needed a lot of help feeling better. She always had, and she always would.
Somehow she kept forgetting that what she needed to do was to make sure she wasn’t falling apart. She kept forgetting that even though she sometimes felt on top of the world, she would never be capable of holding on to that feeling for very long. She kept forgetting that her natural inclination was to sink into a never-ending pit of depression and that the only way out was to keep doing what worked to pull her from the darkness, instead of pretending she was cured and stopping her needed therapies.
Running was one of the things that helped her. Without the movement, without the chemical release, she sometimes wouldn’t feel good, or okay, or even so-so. Without it, she was capable of feeling horrible, or melancholic, or like maybe it would be better if she wasn’t here at all. She couldn’t be a good wife, or more importantly, a good mama, without feeling better.
THAT was really the most important thing she needed to get done. The kitchen could wait. Feeling better could not.
She knew she wouldn’t magically feel better just because she wanted to. She knew she couldn’t feel better solely on her own. Thank goodness he kept trying to help.
When we first fall in love, we notice only the admirable qualities our partner possesses. Mother Nature has watched many a fool, in the beginning stages of a relationship, believe they have found True Perfection, and she has laughed her ass off each and every time at such naiveté. True Perfection in human character is nothing more than a fond illusion; for every superior quality, an equally superb flaw exists. Though it may take some time for these blemishes to reach the surface, there is no avoiding the inevitable pus-filled Character Defect Outbreak in the end. There are no exceptions to this rule. There are no exceptions to this rule. (Did you hear that, self? I’m talking to you, too). Mother Nature is both a giving nurturer and also a cruel beast.
A random sampling of examples exhibiting what one can be good at, and simultaneously royally sucking at, can be found below:
Can spend two hours maneuvering a chainsaw and chopping down a 30 foot tree, ensuring it falls safely away from the house, but cannot spend 4 minutes chopping an onion or green pepper to help prepare fajitas for dinner.
Can take apart and reassemble a car engine, a vacuum cleaner or a laptop computer, but can not take apart and reassemble the rice cooker in the kitchen or the toilet paper roll holder in the bathroom.
Can scrape the paint from the exterior siding of an entire house, yet can not manage to scrape the price stickers off of birthday or holiday gifts before giving them to the recipient.
Can notice a speck of dust on the mantle, or a wisp of spider web in the upper reaches of a tray ceiling, but can not notice when the soles of their socks are held together by only 7 interconnected threads, or that their eyebrow hairs are extending beyond their face and inching towards their ears.
Can figure out a way to budget and put away money into multiple savings accounts, stocks and 401k’s, can implement projects which save the company at work at millions of dollars, but can not figure out how your bi-monthly hair cut and color can possibly fit into the family budget (meanwhile 37 sports package add-ons can be added to the cable bill).
Can understand complicated instruction manuals (even the ones from IKEA) and could navigate to safety if lost in the woods with only a map and a compass, or perhaps even armed only with a mental image of the constellations and a view of the night sky, but can not figure out which type of medicine could possibly be taken to remedy a headache or a stuffy nose. Tylenol Cold and Flu? Sinutab? Mirilax? It’s SO CONFUSING.
Can sit stealthily up in a blind for hours on end, not disturbing a squirrel, ladybug, or any other living thing, with the hopes of hunting down a deer, but can not eat a bowl of cereal in the kitchen without sounding like they are chewing on a bowl of gravel, and the grinding echoing through the house.
Can remember every relative’s birthday, every family member’s doctor and dental appointment dates for the entire year, and can remember what your second cousin George’s ex-girlfriend-from-7-years-ago’s cat’s name was, but can not remember to turn off a light switch. In any room, hallway or closet in the house. Or garage. Ever.
Can bathe, suction snot out of noses, clip fingernails and read educational books to the kids, while simultaneously cooking dinner, doing 4 loads of laundry and mopping the floors, but can not talk, speak or listen while applying mascara.
Can work out six days per week, can be capable of performing yoga hand stands and running marathons, but can not open a jar of pickles or a screw top beer without assistance.
Can excel at cooking, gardening and sewing but can not manage to find common ground with your mother, who excels at cooking, gardening and sewing.
Can use alarms and timers and careful planning to be punctual for every appointment and event on the calendar, but can not manage to remember that there is meatloaf in the oven or noodle casserole on the stove top that needs to be stirred until after it can be smelled burning.
What does your spouse do well….and not so well?
During the honeymoon phase, relationships are easy. They are all adventure and excitement and newness. But as the years wear on, the excitement dies down and reality sets in. Here are some tips to ensure that you are giving your spouse what he or she needs, so the two of you can make it for the long haul.
1. Schedule your sexy time. Instead of silly, immature, impromptu sexcapades, ask your spouse if they want to have sex at 7pm on Tuesday. On. The. Dot. Everyone appreciates it when time is carved out just for them. However if they arrive any later than 7.15, withhold sex acts of any kind. No one likes to be stood up for a date. When they try to make a move, pull out your day planner and have them reschedule.
2. Announce every time you’re going to the bathroom. The old, “Honey, I’ve gotta take a crap” routine never gets old, and everyone appreciates a truly open an honest relationship
3. Help each other remove excess hair. Shave your man’s back, or help wax your lady’s upper lip. A bit of southern landscaping may or may not be needed, from time to time. Everyone appreciates when their significant other makes them feel attractive.
4. Sleep with the television on all night. But, only if your spouse prefers silent, inky darkness. It’s good to help them broaden their horizons.
5. Eat the last of the Chocolate Moose Tracks. Or whatever favorite treat your spouse enjoys. Everyone wants someone to help them stay in shape. Tip: This is especially true during/after pregnancy.
6. Pretend to be asleep when you hear your child wake up. Do NOT get up, no matter how long it takes your spouse to finally get up and tend to the child, because everyone appreciates being able to spend some extra quality time with their kid.
7. Provide a counter-argument for every stance your spouse takes. Parenting. Politics. Religion. Pantry organization. No subject is too big or too small to stand up to spousal scrutiny. Your spouse will either gain negotiating skills or become so beaten down that he or she will go to great lengths to avoid a debate with you. Either way, it’s a win.
8. Ask for things. A glass of water. A slice of bread with peanut butter on it. Help doing any task your spouse routinely does independently, such as carrying the baby AND the diaper bag, simultaneously. It’s good to help your spouse feel needed and capable. Bonus: If you ask for that water when you’re both upstairs in bed, you’ll also be helping them tone their quads and glutes by trudging up and down the stairs.
9. Ogle attractive strangers. Stare at your waitress as she walks away, eyeball your kids soccer coach, demand to watch a movie because your favorite on screen lover plays the lead role. This is a tough love tactic. No one wants to be taken for granted, so reminders that your spouse isn’t the only fish in the sea are sometimes needed.
10. Answer questions with mirror questions. “What do you want for dinner?” “What do you want?” , “What is the name of that show with the chainsaw murderer who works at the daycare?” “What is that show called?” The only communication tip better than this one is giving an answer to a completely different question than the one asked. “What do you want for dinner?” “I heard about this high protein shake mix that you drink right after a workout that’s supposed to help build muscles 82 times faster than normal”. By utilizing one of these communication modes you’re sure to engage your partner and avoid any awkward silent moments.
What other tips would you recommend?
How to pick a mate – from the fairer sex perspective.
1) Pick someone bigger than you. It doesn’t matter what size you are, it matters how big you are compared to the person next to you. If you are 4′ 8″ and 79 lbs, you pick someone who’s at least 5′ 2″ and you’re good. If you’re 6′ 3″ and 330 lbs, go for the 6’5″, 440 pounder. If you aren’t sure if your choice meets the criteria for being enough bigger than you, refer to the spousal proportionality index (I’m sure it can be found on Google).
2) Pick someone who looks like they could be related to you. Just because it seems to work out well, usually. Bonus: This same rule applies to picking out pets! Ignore this rule if you hate your family. Then pick someone with exactly opposite features. You have big, round eyes? Pick someone squinty. You have darker skin? Pick someone who burns after 4.3 seconds of Sun exposure. Hate communicating with your mother? Pick an English language learner. You get the idea.
3) The hairier the better. Even if you are a hairy brute, if you pick someone with 342 hairs per square inch more than you have, you’ll look delicate in comparison. You will, however, have to invest in laser hair removal for your children, in lieu of a college fund.
4) You need one nag. There has to be one person who cares passionately about the lights being turned off, the counter tops being cleared, and the organization of the shoe rack. Passionately! If we do not all pair up to ensure this 1-1 nag ratio, the Earth would implode while simultaneously being taken over by an evil cat dictator. At least, that’s the general idea I’m getting, based on Mr. Grouch’s feelings towards lights, counter tops and shoe racks.
5) Pick a boozer who isn’t too much of a boozer. You don’t want someone who doesn’t like to drink. That’s boring. But, you also don’t want someone who’s going to ruin the office Christmas party by signing photocopies of their ass and stuffing them in the decorative stockings on the walls, either. Helpful Hint: If you can find someone who truly drinks socially, as in 1-2 drinks max, then you’ll always have a designated driver.
6) Pick someone who will let you complain. You need someone to vent to about your stupid job, to side with you when you get pissed off at your stupid cousin, and someone to lean on when your stupid dog dies.
7) Pick someone who will tell you to shut up. You don’t want to become some bitter, self-righteous harpy. Even when your cousin is an asshole, or your cat chokes on a hairball (his, yours, or your mate’s) and bites the dust. You need a kick in the pants every once in a while to regain some grace and put things in perspective.
8) Make sure you can put up with their most annoying habits. Because they aren’t going to go away. The snoring and the loud chewing and the good morning farts will actually increase in intensity 20-fold. At least. Learn to deal, or get out now, before your ear drums burst from the sound of Honey Nut Cheerios being munched, or you’re suffocated by cockcrow fumes.
9) Pick someone whose family members you don’t want to punch in the mouth. I mean, sometimes you will want to give a quick little sucker punch. Pow. But, to be fair, you also want to give a little tap to members of your own family from time to time. In some ways your in-laws will never really understand you, but in other ways you will be closer to them than your own blood. Even though they are not yours by ancestry, they are now yours by proximity. Don’t foolishly think they will go away – relatives love to stick nearby one another and drive each other batshit crazy, until the day they die.
10) Pick someone who gives you your space. In the honeymoon stage all you want to do is cuddle and kiss and pet each other. Once you’re over that sweet little hump you’re still going to enjoy spending quality time together, but you’ll no longer be willing to give up your weekly coffee dates with your friends, book club meetings (aka wine drinking and laugh-fests) and you are absolutely not going to want his foot to touch yours when you’re sleeping. Trust me. I have never understood how a King sized bed is the largest bed they make. There is so not enough space for two people who have been together for more than one year.
Any other tips for long-term couplings?
Mr. Grouch and I met in 1997, my freshman year of college, his sophomore year. It didn’t take long for me to fall head over heels. At 18 years old, I knew he’d probably be the one I married, but we were young and foolish and we used to drive each other batshit crazy. We broke up a few times and after 4 years of mostly-together-but-a-little-apart, we thought we might have broken up for good. We were separated for 3 1/2 years before getting back together for ever-ever.
Within The Hiatus, we each dated other people. I briefly kept company with a guy we’ll call Featherweight. Featherweight and I decided to go camping for a weekend, and visit my friend Nic, who was in the middle of a months long hiking adventure on the Appalachian Trail. I called Nic the day before we left so we would know his exact location on the trail.
Before hanging up, I asked him, “Have you seen any bears?” I was expecting him to say no.
Nic is a tall, lanky blonde, who was dirty and smelly and scruffy from months of hiking along the trail. He also pilfered 3 rolls of toilet paper – by unrolling them by hand – from the stalls at Applebees when we took him there at the end of the trip. The look on his mangy bearded face was priceless when we pointed out that we could have just given him several rolls we brought. But, that is completely irrelevant to the story. Back to the phone call.
Apparently only one day earlier, he had been walking briskly, arms swinging, with his 40 lb. pack on his back. He was listening to music and was so comfortable on the trail that he was paying more attention to his thoughts than the scenery, until he noticed a dark image out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head to the left, threw his arms up and let out an “Ahhhh!” when he realized there was a large brown bear standing at close proximity. He discovered that bears take loud yelling, accompanied with raised arms, to be an aggressive posture. He told me, “Everything you learn about what to do when you come across a bear goes out the window. I just started running”.
Nic started trotting down the trail and the bear started galloping after him. A couple of trail runners were jogging in the opposite direction, and when they saw this chase, they turned around and started running the other way. Three people in a row, sprinting as a brown bear followed. Eventually the bear swiped at Nic’s pack and then stopped the chase.
Remember, this was the day before we were going to meet him on the trail. My panicking-about-bears problem was born.
So Featherweight and I start hiking on the “trail”. You can’t follow the Appalachian Trail by looking down at your feet because there aren’t clear paths worn away by walkers. In order to make sure you stay on the trail, you have to look for white swipes of paint, called blazes, on the trees. You scan to the left and to the right and when you see a blaze, you know to walk in that direction. Then you scan again and search for the next blaze. This is what they look like:
After 3 miles of walking, Featherweight and I realize we had been walking in the wrong direction. Crap. We turned around and after 6 miles of hiking, we were back at the beginning. The beginning of the end. We were now going to arrive later than we thought, and later in the day meant closer to darkness and I now knew that darkness was full of bears.
I started walking faster. It started getting darker. I started walking FASTER. Featherweight started lagging behind. Featherweight started whining about his pack being too heavy. Featherweight started whining about night-blindness and was all “I can’t see any of the blazes”. Featherweight started whining about me going to fast.
I stared at him incredulously. Darkness. Blindness. Bears. This is when I knew for sure he wasn’t the one. The proverbial straw on the camel’s back, if you will. I will not be slowed down and potentially end up lost in the woods, in the dark, with bears. I. Will. Not. Be. Slowed. Down. Even though Mr. Grouch and I never went camping, I knew if I needed him to keep up, he would. He wouldn’t let me get eaten by a bear. Even if he was tired, and hungry and couldn’t see, he’d at least protect me by making sure to keep up, you see?
Needless to say the camping experience with Featherweight was tense and awkward and we were so clearly OVER. I advise all couples to put themselves in a few stressful situations before picking a mate, otherwise you might not realize you’re dating a Featherweight until it’s too late.
Mr. Grouch and I are now older and we still drive each other batshit crazy. But, he can keep up with me, which makes him a keeper.
If you liked this post you may also enjoy An Open Valentine To Mr. Grouch
I thought I had already completed my obligatory Valentine’s Day post, when I wrote a love letter to my nasal irrigation system. But, then I thought there was no reason to disregard my OTHER lovey-dovey. No need to mention which or whom I love more.
Mr. Grouch, you are a man apart, You wake me with your Good Morning fart. We met in the year Nineteen Ninety Seven, According to you, we’re a match made in Heaven. It is true that sometimes I want to give your head a punch, And hear the bones in your nose go crunch. But I am often reminded of your positive traits, Your brains, your balls, your beautiful face. You'll call customer service and be firm, yet nice, You can get anyone selling to come down to your price. You're a man! A strong man! You demand lots of power, (yet I find it endearing, how bats and mice make you cower). Your handyman projects save us so much dough, That it’s okay the bathroom trim looks only so-so. You're an incredible father, at parenting you're top rate, Good luck with your plan though, to never let her date. You rub my back and pull out my chair, And do not care that I need vats of Nair. You put up with me during my times of despair, And my panic while camping - of attack by black bear. If I asked, you’d make me coffee in the morning, Except I no longer trust you, you made decaf once, without warning. You are a manly man, a work of art, And I love everything about you, for the most part.
My husband and I met on the soccer field – we were on the same intramural team at MSU in 1997. We talk about this long ago age in “pounds ago”, instead of “years ago” since we were once both young and spry. Sometimes we still play on coed teams together, or he plays on his own team and I do other things like yoga or jogging (running a half marathon next weekend – wish me luck!)
Awhile back, he started complaining of a groin injury. For some time, he had to do some physical therapy and take a soccer break in order for it to heal. It helped. At one point though, within the duration of this soccer break, he started to mention that the groin injury seemed to be returning; this confused him since he hadn’t been playing.
It’s old news that I have horrible issues sleeping. Since I am awake periodically throughout the night I am able to easily spy on observe the other people in my house as they snooze.
My husband sleeps like a rock and awakes refreshed every morning. For this I alternate between being envious and murderous, depending on how tired I am. He does have one weird sleeping habit though. He sleeps with his knees bent, with one leg upright, foot planted on the bed, knee towards the ceiling. I snuck a picture of him doing it while he was sleeping the other night. This is what it looks like:
I have no idea how he is able to hold his leg like this, while sleeping. If it were me, my leg would topple one way or the other.
When he mentioned the groin injury recurrance, it dawned on me that THIS could be the cause of the injury, not his efforts on the pitch. It must take some effort to keep that leg up, dontcha think? He asked that if I see him doing this, I move his leg so it is lying flat. This means that nightly I’m shoving his leg over to get it down in an effort to help him avoid a sleep-related injury.
So, imagine my giggles when I peeked in on Baby Grouch the other night and saw this:
Just over 6 weeks ago, Baby Grouch arrived. She is strong and healthy and a lovely little peanut.
She is also somewhat lumpy and squeaky and sloshy – as newborns tend to be.
During pregnancy, my body ventured into uncharted hormonal territory – that is – my hormones seemed to even out and become what many would call “normal”. My moods were relatively even and my anxiety level was low. I was less anxious and more calm. My skin, which is notoriously spotty, was smooth and bumpless. My blood pressure even registered within the normal range for the first time in years. I stopped having ridiculously vivid dreams that left me half-dead in the morning. I was sleeping better than ever, and since feeling good is so boring, I had nothing much to post onto this blog of mine. Pregnancy viking, I was.
Well, the Morning Grouch is making a grand re-entrance. During labor, the blood pressure spiked, and has returned to hovering on the borderline range. My skin has dulled and a few spots have returned. The dreams are slowing coming back and Ms. Grouch has been getting a maximum of 2 hours of solid sleep in a row for the past few weeks. And the kicker? Lately everyone is calling me “Ma’am”. REALLY? MA’AM?? UGH.
A few Saturday’s ago, I woke up, more exhausted than usual, at the midnight feeding and at the 3 am feeding. When I heard the baby start to stir again, I asked my husband if he could feed the baby before he went to work, to give me an extra couple hours of sleep in a row. Naturally, the baby didn’t actually wake up until it was almost time for him to leave, so he said he didn’t have time to feed her.
I was not particularly happy about this turn of events, and didn’t have any extra energy, so the result was me not responding a whole lot when he was talking to me, and me being pretty short with him. He asked if I was mad at him about something. No, I insisted, I am just TIRED. He pointed out that even though I was tired, I was not talking to Baby Grouch with anything less than a loving and soothing tone, and I was, in fact, reserving any negative expression for him and him alone.
As he brushed his teeth and got ready for the day, I pondered what he said. It was true, no matter how tired I was I had enough energy for the baby. So, was I mad at my husband? Then, I realized I was. And, I wasn’t. Emotional-Rollercoaster Me was very angry, since I was doing most of the work taking care of Baby Grouch. What the eff, why can’t you feed your own child? What is this nonsensical talk about not having enough time because you have to go to WORK. Work shmerk. I’m TIRED. And you said to let you know when I needed your help! And I NEED IT NOW! RAWR!
But, then, I wasn’t really mad. Logical-Me wasn’t angry at all. Logical-Me was so thankful that my husband was changing diapers, and feeding the baby and asking me what he could do to help. Logical-Me appreciated that periodically he would ask me if I was feeling okay (checking for postpartum issues, as instructed to do in his Daddy Boot Camp class).
So before he left, I explained to him this nonsense about being angry and not angry at the same time. I may or may not have shed a few tears out of frustration. I think he nodded and backed away from me, slowly….
The day continued to roller-coaster.
Baby Grouch and I were listening to Greek Baby Radio and I heard a song about a black cat. I got very excited and happy since we happen to have a favorite fuzzy being in our house who is also a highly pigmented feline. So I laughed and sang the song to the baby. Suddenly all was swell, life was good, and I was giddy and carefree.
Fast-forward 2 1/2 minutes and the next song was about parents loving their little baby so much. Se aga po, agapi mou! Suddenly my humor turned to joy, but a sappy, sad and tearful sort of joy, at remembering how hard it had been for us to get this little pipsqueak and how grateful we are now to have her.
Wow. In a span of hours my emotions had spanned the galaxy.
I texted my husband and let him know that his wife knew she was crazy! Knowing is half the battle, right?
So, 35 weeks into pregnancy, I’m feeling…..good. Incredibly whaleish and crickity creakity (my sacroiliac joint, within my pelvis, and I are not on speaking terms) and heartburny… but still, good. All the discomforts are to be expected and are overall completely bearable and worth it. Without question.
Pregnancy viking, so far, I remain.
I have been lucky enough to be at my most-pregnant during the summer months. Ok, there are definitely downsides to turning more and more into an aquatic mammal throughout the summer – fingers and ankles can easily turn to sausages, the heat can prevent getting a good night’s rest (I’ve been sleeping with cold packs on my side, and often moving to the first floor or basement after waking up, baking, in the middle of the night). But the pros, overall, outweigh the cons. I’m a teacher, so since it is summer vacation, I’ve had the luxury of time – which is good because since I’m considered a “high risk” pregnancy, I’ve had two doctor appointments each week – and it sure is wonderful to not have to use up precious sick days or have to take unpaid work days so I can make them.
(Sidebar – my ultrasounds and non-stress tests have confirmed that this baby is VERY active – a “wild woman” she was called by one nurse, she has had hair on her head for a few weeks already, she often sucks on her fingers, usually has her ankles crossed like a little lady, and she most likely has my husband’s Greek toes (middle toe longer than her big toe) – these doctor appointments are so much more fun than the usual ones 😉 )
Another benefit of being pregnant on my summer off is that I do not have to worry too much about dressing up for work during the summer – and can thus wear the same few tank tops, dresses and skirts the entire three months, saving me a lot on maternity clothes. The only thing I’m willing to spend whatever amount of money on is maternity underwear. There is seriously no greater invention – it is worth every penny. EVERY PENNY, I tell you! They make me happy just thinking about them and their stretchy comfortableness.
Any-hoo, speaking of maternity wear, I have to give props to a special pair of Silver brand jeans. I purchased said jeans around the year 2000 or so, and wore them quite a bit, and then they ended up shoved in the back of my closet for a few years, forgotten. I rediscovered them when we moved into our new house a couple of years ago. The jeans a) still fit, and b) remained relatively in style. Damn good purchase. Well, little did I know that this was the purchase that just keeps on giving. These pants have continued to fit, as I have grown, and grown…and grown.
I tried wearing one of my other favorite pairs of jeans a tad too long, with a belly band, and ended up ripping a hole on the inside of one of the thighs (aka my maternal fat stores). Other pants either cannot be put on anymore, or must be completely unzipped, and still result in extreme discomfort, particularly when sitting. But the Silvers? They are like the mystical traveling pants (you know, the ones from the movie, that an entire group of female friends, who all were different shapes and sizes of lovely woman-ness, were able to wear comfortably). These pants continue to stretch and conform to my changing body, with nothing but a simple hair-tie to hold the button at the top in place.
Pregnancy is amazing and mysterious and wonderful, and so are these damn pants.