Today is the landmark occasion that I finally put away my maternity clothes. Sure, it may be over 5 months since my last child left my body and sometime less than that after reaching my pre-pregnancy weight. But dammit, I earned every minute in those stretchy, extra forgiving clothes. Sorry, not sorry.
Hell, I would have kept them in circulation longer if it weren’t for the fact the bulk of my baby-bearing body days were in the late fall and winter. I’d still be wearing my down-filled parka with expandable panels on the side for my growing bump if it weren’t for the fact I’d be deader than disco after croaking from heat stroke.
Over the past few months, I whittled down my maternity clothes collection, slowly packing away sweaters, coats, and pants until all but a couple pairs of leggings remained. I debated throwing them in the growing pile of things to sell or give away, but couldn’t quite part with them for reasons of possibly wanting more children or definitely wanting a pair of Thanksgiving pants. So much elastic, so much room for pumpkin pie.
So, today I bid my final farewell to the last of my maternity clothes. I would wear those leggings around the house unapologetically, my waistband proudly yanked high enough to the point it could probably pass for a one piece jumpsuit if I crammed in my boobs. But eventually I grew tired of my Urkel-esque pants slowly shifting to MC Hammer-levels of droop crotch, so I put them in the rolling suitcase with the one wonky wheel and tucked it in the corner of my closet for another day.
But make no mistake. Though they are gone, they are not forgotten. Maternity style finally evolved past the shapeless jumpers my mother used to wear to things I considered cute on my body that, at times, felt so incredibly gross. Things that took me months past the point of necessity to part with. And for that I am eternally grateful.