postpartum

Ah, postpartum. The word ought to be followed by “visit,” as in doctor’s or midwife’s appointment, or “depression,” as in, um, depression. But I notice that on its own, ‘postpartum’ is not so much used in conversation.

I myself am in that lovely postpartum phase where a good third of one’s hair falls out. Abigail showered in my bathroom last night and screamed for me as soon as she stepped in because “I’m scared of THAT!” THAT being, of course, the massive sad chunk of hair snaking over the drain. “Me too,” I told her, and removed the offending strands. I don’t think she was comforted. Neither was I. Really, I have plenty of hair to lose, but it’s stopped being all pregnantly shiny and healthy-looking. Pretty hair is one of the things I miss about being pregnant the whole time I’m not pregnant. Sciatic nerve pain, foot cramps, peculiarly leaking fluids, and being unable to clip my own toenails, NOT things I miss. I would put nausea and exhaustion on the list, but they haven’t left me yet.

This week a little Old-Navy-shopping-spree-in-a-fedex-package arrived on my doorstep (hooray!), so I am once again wearing Clothes That Fit. (Side note: as far as I can tell, this is what Old Navy is for. Guilt-free shopping when you need something that will work NOW. Especially if you don’t need it to still work six months from now.) I cannot even explain how nice it is to feel like a normal person wearing normal-person clothes. Technically, of course, I needed the shopping spree because I’m still a good 2 sizes bigger than I was before I was pregnant, and technically one of the pairs of capris is still a bit snug (why? why? it’s the same numerical size as the others), and technically I still have exactly zero bras that fit, but today I FEEL like I look slim and chic (what? Don’t look at me like that. And stop laughing).