So... I am trying to find a way to blame my latest embarrassing moment on this morning's lack of CONSTRUCTIVE advice about how to deal with my post-baby wardrobe. I really did have to have my picture taken (too horrifying for words) for a billboard this afternoon. And I was really tearing apart all of my clothes to find something that could withstand being approximately three times life size in full-length glory (Trust this woman to sell your house! She looks sturdy!).
But... after tearing apart my closet and dresser and before the photo shoot (work it, farmgirl, work it!) I had to take Sarah to the doctor. Picture me, if you will, in full makeup, big ol' 1980s hair (because I'm retro cool like that and have natural frizz) and even with earrings on for crying out loud. Then picture the black maternity dress with the vee neckline meant to detract from a baby belly but in my current case only emphasizing the "girls." It was actually the best I could do. So I decided to go with it and threw in a pair of high-heeled black leather knee-high boots. (You can stop picturing me now if it's too painful for your imagination.) The boots added height and covered up the nylons, you see. And when you're four inches taller you're allowed to weigh more.
Now I have known our family doctor for just short of my whole life. I used to babysit his children. My best friend in high school was his oldest daughter. We know him so well that when I was experiencing postpartum depression, he was the last person I could tell. When we have suffered miscarriages, I don't tell him at all because I don't want him to get sad along with us. In short, I always want him to see only the good, fun side of us. The wholesome, cute family side. We talk about equestrian teams and gardening. He tells me how the kids are doing in college, how my friend is doing in her fabulous job as a children's librarian in California.
So of course I show up at his office tarted up for a photo shoot, packing a 4-month old on my hip, dragging a 4-year-old by one arm and simultaneously wiping her gross snotty nose, explaining in my most reasonable voice to the 7-year-old how to do a clean-catch urine sample. (Ease up on the bubbles in the bath and avoid the reason for our doctor visit du jour.)
Note: Usually when we have to make a trip to the doctor's office, I am in overalls or jeans ("What Not To Wear" would have a field day with me). It goes with the cute farm family theme and is entirely practical because there are a lot of pockets to stash pacifiers and such. I didn't even think about my weird portrait appointment attire after the four-hour panic attack that led to choosing the outfit. I certainly didn't think about it as we got our diagnosis. But I did notice that Dr. X was really busy today, without his usual time for chatting.
I did think about it as we got in the Suburban to rush to the real estate office, right after Sarah said to me, "Hey, Mommy, when you hold the baby like that, everyone can see your pretty bra."