I made a private vow to myself, when I got married, and had a wonderfully more-than-generous lingerie shower.
I would never wear a night gown to bed.
And then I got pregs. For the third time.
Yeah. Forget lingerie-it doesn't fit my already bludgeoning belly. Neither do my pajamas. They all look stupid, not to mention life threateningly suffocating. And no, I'm not forking out fifty bucks on maternity pajamas. That ship has sailed. It's called priorities. It was Jamin's boxers and t-shirts for me. Hawtness. When the old favorite t-shirt no longer fit, and my husband actually cracked a joke that I looked like white trash (Yeah, he actually said that-and in all fairness, it was warranted. I am the person on Oprah who answers the door and looks beyond horrified because she wears her crap clothes all day) I knew it was time to move on to bigger and better, (however tent-like) things.
That was when I made the decision of all life altering decisions.
I decided to break out the maternity nightgown I found hanging in my closet. It was my sister in laws. I don't know if she ever wore it.
It is blue. It's soft. It's marvelous.
And I'm never giving it up.
I have worn this magical tunic for two nights in a row.
And then I woke up and actually looked at myself in the mirror.
It ages me nearly fifty years. I look like my grandmother. The only thing missing is my night bonnet with curlers.
Me: "Yeah...this doesn't really do it for you, does it?"
Jamin: "No."
Me: "Sweet." {a sound night's sleep...guaranteed}