Thursday, November 14, 2013


Williamsburg, 2013

I know it's technically still fall, but when the temperature is 38 degrees out, I call it winter.

I'll admit I have nerves about a winter pregnancy, because I tend to struggle a bit with the shorter, darker days and with feeling cooped up at home. I love the run up to the holidays, and all of the cooking and planning that that entails, but on a day to day basis, all the layers and logistics of going outside make me rather grumpy.

My spring and summer pregnancy with Axel was pretty great. We had a really mild winter that year, and I took little jaunts to Nevis and to the Virgin Islands, and then spent much of the summer in sundresses and flip flops, eating watermelon slices. There were a few unbearably hot days here and there, but I was generally blissed out from all of the Vitamin D and didn't really mind.

Alas, today I finally put all of my summer-ish clothes into a box under the bed, and it was a funny experience. I am not much of a clothes horse, but even so, a lot of our identity is wrapped up in why we wear what we wear. And it made me laugh to see that all of my warm weather clothes are suited more to traipsing around Vietnam or Morocco or India (in fact, a lot of them were purchased there) than they are to life in Brooklyn.

Of course, a few years ago, I was doing a ton of traipsing, for professional reasons and for the plain old adventure. But looking at all the floaty skirts and beaded tops (many of them, sadly, a little worse for wear) made me realize that that it feels like that phase of my life is indefinitely on hold. It's not that we aren't going to travel; it's just not going to be the freewheeling kind of stuff it once was, at least for a while.

When you are in the thick of the baby years, clothes get complicated. It was funny to see this shopworn pile of colorful things from what feels like a past life. In becoming a parent, so many of us are determined not to lose our identities. But those identities change. I could toss everything out, beginning again after this baby. But even the notion of that simple act sets my mind spinning...'Well, I should really wait until I am done with pregnancies and those early, messy baby years to really make any big changes...' I'm not quite ready to get rid of the improbable, impractical skirt.

It's no secret that Will and I would like a tribe, if nature agrees with our plans. We are set on three children, but in casual conversation with friends Will will slip in 'or four'...and hahahahahahaha. We'll see. So the idea of this post-infant phase, when my body is again my own and I am not likely to have banana wiped on my pants and will once again wander through markets in India? It's seeming like it's a long way away.

 I know, I know, one thing at a time. It's just that I am a planner. And so a simple errand goes from zero to 'How the hell are we going to raise four kids in the city' in about 30 seconds.

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