After breakfast, we decided to make Valentines for each other. I am a compulsive keeper (not hoarder) of useful craft supplies, which include (but are not limited to) various construction and other fine papers, glue, pipe cleaners, old cards, pom-poms, glitter, paints, pens, crayons and googly eyes. We chose carefully from the roomful of supplies I managed to amass for our activity, and spent a happy hour-and-change hand crafting love cards to one another while listening to (amongst others) The Beatles and Dashboard Confessional. Che romantico. Photo below of finished product!!
Next, we watched the Princess Bride (I for the first time), and afterward decided on a nap. Believe it or not, this is where the day gets a bit complicated, many thanks to my loose-cannon hormones.
It's a bit before 5pm when I lay down, joined by Frank. I sleep easily, but Frank is a bit restless after less than an hour, and decides to get up to call his mom and look for houses online. Time goes by, Frank gets lost in what he's doing, and I continue to sleep without stirring for quite some time. When I finally stir, it's a quarter to seven, and after I start semi-coherently whining, it becomes clear somewhat quickly to my unknowing sweetheart that this is a problem. You see, we had reservations for Tersigel's in Ellicott City at 8:30. We live a half hour away, and Frank had let me know that we should try to arrive around 8:15 or so. That means of course that we should leave 45 minutes from moment of sea-sick consciousness.
Picture this: you are a woman, newly pregnant. You've been nauseous most of the day (only because the whole day hasn't transpired yet). This is your last Valentines Day without a child. In months, you will be very convex. Your legs are very hairy, which you planned on taking care of calmly and coolly when you woke up at six o'clock. You want to wow your husband--this being one of the last legitimate reasons to dress nicely before your measurements start to escalate rapidly. Hair takes time. Makeup takes time. Switching accessories around to achieve the perfect harmonious combination that makes you feel like a genius/supermodel takes time. And getting out of bed at ANY time of day when you're pregnant--due to relentless sleepiness and queasies--TAKES TIME.
I begin to wimper and make my ugliest cry face (I know what it feels like). I begin to gripe at Frank for being concerned with the future dwelling of our very new family because we have SO MUCH TIME (we really don't.) and how he should have been in bed with me to aid consciousness at the time I never told him I wanted to wake up. He takes this well, blaming himself for my benefit (as I am clearly losing my mind at this moment), telling me to take my time getting ready, and drawing me a warm ("not too hot" is blobbed out between sobs) bath.
I get myself into the tub, still pouting, but at least now moving, and start shaving my legs. Sweet Frankie P shows up with an apple juice spritzer in one of our fancy champagne flutes, and I smile gleefully, but it's short lived. Once I get myself out, I realize we are quite short on time if we are to make it to the restaurant--someone said they close at nine. It's quarter to eight. Hair and makeup done quickly, but it's not perfect, and so baby brain starts crying again. I am assured that I look beautiful, and asked to take a minute to relax before we leave. It is already 8:15, and I find relaxing unattainable, so instead I convince Frank that we should go.
I am stiff and uncomfortable in the car, and continue crying for 20 of the 25 minute car ride. At this point, it is a certifiable fact that this is hormone induced. I know there is nothing to be upset about--my husband is more than pleased with the new dress I put on, the restaurant is open later than we thought, and it is no problem that we're late. MY EYES ARE LEAKING.
Perpetuating this trail of tears during the ride was the realization that I couldn't take a full breath in my dress while I sit. I recalled hearing that somewhere toward the mid/end of the second trimester, a woman can no longer fill her lungs fully with air because of baby girth. I have a panicky moment where I realize I would really like to fully inhale while I can, so I wrestle my coat open, and unzip my dress about 2 inches underneath the back of my sweater. Able to breathe a bit better, I manage to calm down in the parking lot. Magically, my makeup is lighter, but largely unharmed--an advantage of leaking crocodile tears versus voluntarily crying.
I am feeling pretty okay by the time we sit at our table, which was actually in the same room we had our nice little post-wedding lunch/reception. We make our tweaks to the pre-fixe orders, I pass my complimentary starter cocktail to Frank, and before we get the Mous Bous (weird French appetizers), I am stricken by a feeling of total discomfort. Though I'd already released some pressure in the car, the waist of my dress (purchased on the vacation in which I was knocked-up), has what I realize is a VERY inflexible waistline.
I start making colic faces. Frank is concerned. I explain the issue, at which time he suggests we switch seats. My back is currently to the rest of the room, and our plan is for me to continue to release my back zipper from duty. Thank the Lord I wore this sweater.
We make the change, and my back is now to the wall. Luckily, the two tables on either side have just cleared out, and remain open. I pull the zipper down to the nape of my back, and feel a release of pressure similar to the bottles of champagne that everyone else is drinking. There may have been a physical noise.
I have to button the top two buttons of my sweater, since the top of my dress is suddenly very lazy. Frank and I crack up as I make my way to the bathroom with a faint but large V visible on my back.
We're both in much higher spirits by the end of the meal--I have fully apologized for what I of course could not help, and we both got to eat a lot of great French bread, amongst other things. Ooh, and these amazing little blueberry tarts--they were incredible. Happy Valentines Day to us!
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