Maternity Pants and Adoption

Filed Under: Life

This is apparently the week of Ollie.  Kinda like the year of the Ox but not nearly as long.

I called Oliver’s pediatrician this morning and asked that she call in an antibiotic.  It’s not that I don’t enjoy breastfeeding my four month old with him sitting up…it’s just awkward.  That and the reason that I have to feed him while he’s sitting up is because he can’t breath when he’s on his back.

That, however, is not the point of tonight’s post.

The point is that I’m wearing some maternity capris.  That’s right.  My kid is almost five months old and I’m wearing maternity pants.  But, I could give two shits.  I’ve come to realize that my maternity clothes are ten times cuter than my “real” clothes.  And after having had two kids in just over two years-both delivered via c-section-my maternity pants are more comfortable than my regular pants.

Last week I had a minor epiphany of sorts.

The family and I were driving to somewhere…probably Target…and I was wearing a pair of maternity jeans.  These jeans retail for about $300 but I got them on eBay for $30.  They are probably my favorite pair of jeans that I own.  I was sitting in our car wondering if I looked pregnant since I was wearing maternity pants and I realized that #1 no one around here probably realizes that they’re maternity jeans and #2 no one other than my family has a frame of reference for what I “should” look like.  Once I accepted that, I felt just a bit more at ease with myself.

Sure, I wish that I was a size 5 but I don’t think that I’ve EVER been a size 5 and there’s no way that I’ll ever attain a size 5 when I have a kid stuck on my boob.  And oh well.  Tucker still finds me attractive.  I occasionally get hit on by the neighborhood Pakistani gas station attendant.

For right now, that will have to do.

I’ll continue to be happy in my maternity pants until they get too big on me and then I’ll get some “real” clothes that don’t have an elastic waist.

Maybe I’ll get on What Not To Wear.

There’s an idea.

OH.  While I’m talking about reality shows, I might as well mention this little tidbit.

I’ve had a couple of email conversations with an associate producer for Missing You for CBS.  The premise of the show is that you’re looking for someone and they find that person and you get to meet them.

Since I’ve been searching for my birth mother for as long as I can remember, I think that I’m a decent candidate for the show.  But, the more I think about it, the more nervous I get.  I seriously doubt that my mom would want to be on camera and I can’t help but worry about what people would think/say about me when/if my episode aired.  I know that most would probably think that I’m being selfish for wanting to find my birth mother but it all boils down to medical history and Arkansas is a state that seals adoption records so I’m stuck not knowing anything.

When I was 14, I had a very large germ cell tumor removed-along with my right tube and ovary.  That is the main reason why it took us a year and a half to conceive Cara.  The reason medical history is so important to me is because the tumor that I had is a “sex linked” tumor meaning that it’s hereditary on the female side of the line.  The chances that either my birth mother or 1/2 biological sister had this tumor is pretty much guaranteed.  If we had known about this then I probably wouldn’t have almost died from a necrotic tumor.

I can’t help but wonder what else is hiding in my genetics that I just don’t know about.

Now I have two very awesome kids and it’s not just about me.  While we know Tucker’s family’s medical history, there’s a whole side that we have no clue about and when medical histories are taken for my kids or me, my side is always N/A.

If you’ve read this site for very long then you know that I like to have all of the facts and I don’t like any grey area.  My history is a HUGE grey area that has plagued me for a very long time.  So, if I do get selected for this show and you happen to see it and some friends of yours are talking shit, please send them to this post.

For once, it really isn’t all about me.