I was trolling through Target recently when I noticed a few of the maternity clothes on display. No, no, I'm not in the market. But I still couldn't stop staring. Because these clothes were actually pretty. Flattering, even.
Wow. No fair.
When I was pregnant - and it really wasn't that long ago - that's not what I was seeing. I found a lot of designers who assumed that pregnant women enjoyed dressing like sailors, with blue and white blouses with bows and jaunty collars. Ugh. I, for one, did not care to look like the Good Ship Lollipop.
Or then there was the ubiquitous all-black ensemble of a tunic and leggings. Was it supposed to be slimming? I don't know about you, but by my eighth month, I wasn't fooling anybody.
Now, I didn't shop in high-end places, so I might be doing a disservice to maternity sections at those stores. But I did shop around. And the larger I got, the slimmer my pickings became. I remember one time, I held up two choices to a friend. "What do you think?" I asked, holding up a crazy-quilt shirt and a lacy, low-cut tunic. "Do you see me as more, 'Demented hillbilly' or 'Trying too hard?'"
She shook her head. "They're both awful," she told me bluntly. "Come over to my house. The pool's open; we'll cut up the tarp."