Winter Pants Blues

The sun is shining on the fresh snow, making it look a lot more pleasant outside than it actually is. Temperatures are hovering around 20, which is a lot better than the recent below-zero stretch, but that's still more than 10 degrees below freezing. I'm not going out there, and neither is my toddler. Unfortunately this is contributing to some cabin fever and a slight funk.

Sure, we could go out for a few minutes. But unless the ratio of time outside is favorable to the time spent before and after, dealing with all of the snowsuits and boots and mittens and the literal body wrestling to get the 40-pound block of human ice back inside the house and then the mopping up of wet snow melting everywhere, I'm not likely to attempt it today.

I've been Pinning dresses like mad.

Lots of us encounter a sudden dip in emotional well-being this time of year. Seasonal affective disorder (SAD) is a real thing, but I haven't really experienced it in northwest Ohio. Central New York in winter, yes, but not here where I have lots of positive associations with winter weather and where we really fare a lot better than other parts of the country when it comes to never-ending snow or consecutive gray, sunless days.

A lot of my friends begin complaining about the winter weather early in the season, like by Dec. 1. I have an unofficial rule of waiting until March 1. But again, I know where I live and I know there is going to be a few more fierce snow storms before spring really arrives, no matter what the date on the calendar is.

It's March 2, and I feel freer to grump a bit. Being stuck inside a house with a toddler makes anyone grumpy at any time of the year. But he isn't really the object of my distress right now.

It's pants.

I am so sick of wearing warm clothes. Especially pants, with their tight waistbands and their dragging hems, but I've pretty much had it with long-sleeved tops too. How I long for skirts and dresses, for toe-bearing shoes, for skipping out of the house without a bulky wool coat that is screaming for an end-of-season trip to the dry cleaners.

I know it can be a symptom of depression when a woman wanders around her house all day in her nightgown and robe. But it's because I can't bear the thought of putting on pants one more day this winter. Not if I don't have to go out in public or welcome a non-relative into my home. I don't even own snow pants.

Ugh, please, no more pants. Give me spring and a flowing, flowery frock. I'll even be satisfied with my heather gray jersey-knit dress that is basically a giant T-shirt. Even if you can't see it, I want to be bare from my undies to my shoes. Free legs. Pantless legs. ZZ Top legs.

Now I really am having a depressive hallucination.

The Cheese Stands Alone

Sexism starts early in life.

I clad my baby in a brand of diapers that are adorned with cartoon characters. I use this brand because it offers decent leak protection and a nice little rewards program that lets me donate diapers to others.

These diapers are unisex. Some brands have a color-coded differentiation for boys and girls, which I find unfortunate. Can we give their genitals some time to actually develop before we cover them in pink and blue? Excuse me, pink OR blue.

But my brand may be worse. My brand isn't just telling babies that boys and girls are different, these diapers implicitly state that boys are better than girls.

The male cartoon characters are sometimes featured solo on the diaper, but the female characters appear only with their respective male partner or in a group. They never get to stand on their own.

It's fine for a baby girl to have Mickey Mouse smiling over her hooha, but it would be intolerable for a baby boy to wear a diaper with Minnie Mouse batting her eyelashes right over his pee-pee. Right?

No, this isn't right. This is how we indoctrinate our children right from the beginning that boys are supposed to be strong and independent and girls are supposed to be supportive and cooperative. Those all are good things to be, certainly, but when we start parsing them out on a gender basis we make the dividing line thicker and more damaging than it needs to be.

What's most troubling to me is that it's OK for a girl to wear boy things but not OK for a boy to wear girl things. Girls in overalls are cute but boys in a tutu are unacceptable.

Let's be quite clear: It's unacceptable not because it's just different but because it lessens the boy, it sucks away his manhood, it turns him into a weak girl. If a girl wants to step up and play with the big boys, that's admirable. But for a boy to parade around in a Minnie Mouse diaper would be an anathema.

I like it that girls and boys are different. I celebrate many of those differences in my womanhood, and I honor many of those differences in the manhood of my husband, male family members and other men I know. But none of those elements are harmful to the other person, none rob the other of basic personhood.

It boils down to girls being inferior to boys. When girls wear boy clothes, it's as if they are bettering themselves into being boys. When boys wear girl clothes, it's as if they are lowering themselves into being girls. It's acceptable for a girl to be like a boy because that is the ultimate way of being a person. It's unacceptable for a boy to be like a girl because that is giving up the best for just OK.

Damn shame, really. I'm kind of glad whenever Max poops all over it.

Fat Baby Clothes

I'd like to start a clothing line called Fat Baby.

A sister tells me Chunky Monkey would be more appealing, particularly in this society where being fat is such an anathema. But perhaps being more honest and accepting in the label will help society get over its skinny-ass self.

I have a fat baby. Max's weight gain is approved by our pediatrician, he eats normal amounts, and everyone stops in their tracks to marvel at how cute he is, so he isn't "fat" in an unhealthy way. But yes, he has several arm rolls, and his drumstick legs nearly got eaten on Thanksgiving.

My in-laws always call Max "fat baby." I bristled at first, especially because Mom weighs about 90 pounds soaking wet, but I eventually relaxed into it as a term of endearment.

What is frustrating is how tightly most of his clothes fit. Six months old, Max is wearing outfits labeled 12 and 18 months. He didn't fit into hardly any of the cute 3- or 6-month clothing that I got at my shower or on one of my own hormonal shopping sprees.

I know those labels mean next to nothing, but 6 to 18 seems a big jump. Depending on the material, the clothes sometimes are too long in the sleeve or leg, but at least they have generous enough inseams to fit around those chubby arms and legs.

I can't believe how tight some of the clothing is. Who are these scrawny babies who fit into these things?

The above sister theorizes that since much of our textiles come from areas of the world where children are indeed longer and thinner, there is an inherent design or manufacturing standard that doesn't accommodate western babies.

I got pretty mad at Heidi Klum about it. I love watching "Project Runway," and they're always talking about how "real women" look and dress, so I was expressly disappointed to by a long-sleeved onesie and a cardigan from her baby clothes line only to have Max scream in protest as I tried to shove him into them. The items looked OK on the hanger but I didn't realize how tight the arm holes were before purchasing them. At least I got to keep the cute felted hangers.

So, it's up to me to start a clothing line that has fabric allowances in the clothes where they should be. And fercrissakes, maybe some socks that are snug on the foot but big enough to go over the moo-juice-fed calves.

Maybe I won't call it Fat Baby. Rockin' the Rolls? Thunder Tots? Ewes Not Fat, Ewes Just Fluffy?

Just Fluffy, for short.

Molting Chicken

Gawd, I am losing a lot of hair.

My body apparently has jumped off the postpartum hormone cliff. It's a study in opposites: What was supple has become brittle, what was smooth has turned flaky.

On a happy yet intensely personal note, an arid desert has once again become the lush rain forest it's supposed to be.

But mostly I'm just losing my hair at an alarming rate. Much of what I read insists this is normal, but I've never had tresses so thin.

My son Gabe is astounded every time the chore of sweeping the bathroom floor comes up in rotation and he fills the dustpan with my hair, which is absolutely everywhere. I am constantly plucking it off of Max and out of my bra. Washing my hair in the shower has become absolutely depressing, as I stand there and scrape tangled clumps of it off of my wet hands.

My doctor notes that while it is indeed typical for women who don't lose even the daily amount of strands while they are pregnant to shed a fair amount later, my copious loss is a stress symptom. Stupid job.

Thankfully, my hairdresser -- the real professional in this area -- ran her hands through it today and assured me that while I may have less of it, the hair that remains is healthy. Not even split ends.

I got a little trim and a much needed color boost, and we'll just have to see whether that shocks my hair into behaving properly.

Or I'll just go bald and rock some head scarves.

Just a Little off the Top

A freshly trimmed Gabe holds brother Max, while his cousin Maddie
waits for her magic foil to put pretty blonde streaks in her hair.

Many, many birds will be killed if I bother to pick up a stone. It's a chief attribute of a multitasker.

It was frustrating at the beginning of Max's babyhood to be limited to one little task spread over hours. He and I have figured out much better strategies now, and I'm getting a bit more rest, so I can tackle bigger projects.

My latest was wrangling three appointments at the salon. My roots were showing something fierce, Gabe had become a shaggy monster, and niece Maddie had been promised a proper highlighting for her birthday present.

It's always worth the 45-minute drive to the community where I previously lived so that we can receive these services from friend and stylist Shella. If I ever pop into a more local salon for a quick fix, I get tons of compliments on her work. And I wanted Maddie to have the best blonde streaks my money could buy.

Gabe gets great cuts at an old-fashioned barber house in this same community (he goes when he visits his dad and stepmother when he is in town with them) but logistics required him to join us in the house of estrogen. And I needed him to watch his baby brother.

On that score, Gabe did a most amazing job. Max took a nice long nap on his lap, and he was entertained so well the rest of his awake time that he never cried once.

As far as Gabe's head, though, he had to get it screwed back on after I chewed it off.

Shella had arranged for another stylist to cut his hair while she started on Maddie, and this woman gave Gabe a nice trim. But in my opinion, his thick, wavy locks needed more shearing for the summer. Leave it like that and he'd have to be right back in the barber chair two weeks later. That's a waste of my money.

All I said, though, was that I thought it needed to be a little shorter (like he gets at his barber, which I asked him to do the last time he was in town but that didn't happen). The stylist started telling me that it was what Gabe had asked for, so I told Gabe the same thing. "It would be good to get it cut shorter now, buddy."

"It's fine," he said.

Hmpf.

I explained that with as much as he was working on the farm repairing the garage roof, he would be cooler. I added that he would look more presentable with less shag when it grows out in a week. And still a second "it's fine" passed his lips. I tried the old evil eye, but it must have been out of order. He was willing to get out of the chair like he was. I persisted, and he resisted. The stylist spoke some sort of words that seemed to defend Gabe, and I had to get a little short with her to insist that in this moment I was calling the shots.

And so his hair got shorter.

Now, before you think this is a battle of aesthetics between a mother and a teenager, let me assure you that it is not. Gabe is a lot like me. He wants everyone else to be happy and comfortable. Hell, he may even remember me telling a stylist that my terrible haircut was "fine" only to go to someone else the next day for a rescue. He was not defending his desire to look a certain way. He just wanted the haircut to be over, to get back to the games and videos on his phone, and to leave the stylist feeling good about herself.

That's all well and good, but he sure as hell wasn't going to do it at my expense. I wasn't going to be the one walking away unhappy with it, not after going through all the effort to drag this baby around and handle a birthday gift and coordinate it all on the day he was due to come see his dad.

Back in the spa, where we were changing Max's diaper, I told Gabe that I felt he was being disrespectful to me, and that I would not tolerate it, especially in public. The evil eye was back in order, and a wagging finger was added for good measure, and Gabe seemed appropriately mollifying. (And yes, later I did check whether he liked the shorter haircut. He did.)

There certainly are people out there, and likely reading this blog, who think I am overbearing. Of the sins of motherhood that I could be committing, I will gladly take that one. Especially when it leaves Gabe looking presentable and feeling cooler while he's literally on a hot tin roof.

You Are What You Wear

Preggo, for posterity. (Photo by Amy E. Voigt)

Dear clothing manufacturers:

You do know that most pregnant women get bigger in other parts besides their bellies, right?

Respectfully, 

Short Fat Me

Shopping has been my drug of choice for quite some time now, primarily shoes. Smartly designed clothes that are easy to launder and flatter my full figure are a close second. They also are easier to pass off as a necessity. Shoes (and purses and jewelry, oh my) are busting my closet open like an episode of "Hoarders."

Certainly getting new maternity clothes could pass as healthy behavior. I might even get a codependent spending spree out of my mother.

However, shopping for maternity clothes has been nothing but a buzz kill.

Some women buy new clothes in the hopes of masking their pregnancy as long as possible. Maybe their relationships or career objectives otherwise would be thrown into chaos, or maybe they want to hold onto their privacy as long as possible.

Some women refuse to accept that their body parts are going to puff up into wonky, ill-balanced shapes. These women buy Spanx garments well into their second trimester and beyond.

To each her own, but the last thing I wanted to feel like as a pregnant woman was a sausage stuffed into polyester casing. And I was anxious for the beach ball belly to become evident. I'd rather have someone look at me and think, "Oh, she's pregnant" instead of, "Oh, does she really think she can pull off that look with that muffin top?"

In the beginning, I traipsed off to a department store that had faithfully outfitted several family members for years. To my horror, half of the maternity collection was essentially yoga garb, and anything else that might have been suitable for the office was sized in either Small or Medium. Mostly Small.

I haven't been "Small" since grade school. My breasts alone weren't ever going to fit into those tops, never mind a burgeoning tummy. To make matters worse, I already was a "plus-size" gal, dealing with the guilt of not seriously slimming down before conceiving. Pregnancy books had promised me that maternity wear had come a long way in recent years, but the message in the actual stores was clear: Only women who started as a size 2 deserved to have clothes that celebrated motherhood.

I had hoped to find a voluptuous, understanding friend in maternity wear. I instead found a skinny bitch who took advantage of my raging hormones and turned me into a sobbing freak who ran out to her car and promptly ordered a pizza.

Food carried me through my shopping withdrawal for a while. I managed to dress myself in selections from specialty stores that understood short, fat women existed in the world, but let's do the math: Coping with pizza and advancing in pregnancy eventually exacerbated the need to get actual maternity clothes.

I generally do not patronize giant discount stores, but I decided to try the least offensive of them. The maternity section there was the saddest little corner of the world I had ever seen. Four racks of completely unwearable fashions made out of ridiculously uncomfortable fabrics. There were a few pairs of pants that had larger waistbands, but they also had legs long enough for an 8-foot-tall Amazon woman. Another strikeout.

A consignment shop had decent enough clothes, since they once had been worn and then sold by actual women with actual bodies, but again not much in the plus sizes. I did pick up a cute purse, though.

Then I broke down and tried the maternity store in the mall. Big mistake. Their bras were made for the chest of a 10-year-old and the cutely patterned fashions graced sizes reserved for personal trainers. Far in the back was a meager selection of plus-sized garments made from unnatural materials that made me sweaty just looking at them. A few solid-colored basic T-shirts were possibilities, until I looked at the outrageous price tag. There ought to be a special hell for exploiting the budget of a pregnant woman.

I turned to online shopping in desperation, never having had much success with clothes I hadn't been able to try on first. But there were pleasant surprises, even a few tops cute enough to garner compliments. The leggings were a bit on the jodhpurs side, but the outfits got me through the winter.

When spring sprang early in my neck of the woods, I needed to find some dresses. No more pants, please. No more anything that had a waistband. I was pretty big by then and uncomfortable in all sorts of ways, and I was staring to hallucinate that wearing my mu-mu nightgowns to work would be perfectly acceptable.

My salvation was discovered in a national chain that builds its collections for all ages around easy-to-wear, jersey-knit separates. I found trendy, well-shaped, plus-sized dresses in which both my skin and my lungs could breathe. The local store in our area doesn't have a maternity section, but there is one online. A few coupons and an extra-lucky holiday sale later, I looked like a professional, presentable pregnant woman, while I felt like a relaxed, comfortable kid at a slumber party wearing a giant T-shirt as pajamas.

I was finally high again.