Fashion Trauma (and other highlights of pregnancy)

Even though I’ve never been with child (till now, that is), I’ve always dressed maternity. Like the portly Cartman on South Park, I’ve always considered myself "big-boned"–a rounded Emme forever out of place in a country full of Asian Calista Flockharts. Thanks to my boxy figure, you could call me a "comfort over style" kind of person. While my love for garterized pants and roomy blouses doesn’t make me the most fashionable female to ever walk the planet, I’ve always at least been able to dress myself decently, if not without a particular aplomb. Who says you can’t get a stylish pair of stretch pants from labels like Esprit, the Gap and HerBench? But whatever wardrobe skills I had were recently put to the test when I discovered I was pregnant.

The first month (weeks 1 to 6)

It’s not hard to figure out that something’s different. Normally as regular as clockwork, not only am I late, I start craving food I’ve never craved before, like fish and spicy chicken. Fun foods also pop into my head at the oddest hours (usually at 1 a.m. when most stores are closed), like rootbeer floats, coffee drinks (decaf lang), pizza, pizza, pizza, little dried fishy things, and dried fruits (not a craving but a dietary imperative).

On the other hand, the texture of papaya, melons and other mushy yellow fruits in my mouth turns my stomach. I feel nauseous after particularly big meals, yet don’t feel ill enough to give in to the urge to purge.

The general tone of the first month is summed up in one word: Urk. Never have food, smells, and tastes had such a weird power over me. Like some weird new superheroine, my senses and taste buds are so heightened they’re almost bionic. I could charge money for this–possibly as a restaurant critic–except it wouldn’t look too good if after every degustation meal I dash into the bathroom trying not to throw up.

Another curious symptom: Though I’m not feeling overly fatigued nowadays, I find myself taking two-hour naps every afternoon, much to my husband Scott’s consternation. Master of the 15-minute power snooze himself, he frowns on such slothful excess.

Four weeks after my last period, I buy a test at the drugstore and rush home. After the obligatory five minutes, there it is: two fuchsia lines almost identical in color. Since we’ve been trying to start a family, Scott and I are elated and waste no time telling family and friends. Reactions range from my sister Jasmin’s "Thanks for the great gift and surprise" to my friend Tanya’s "Good work, guys!" Another good friend Nikki, mother to two young sons, tells me that we must really be bosom pals: She took a test at the same time that week and it also came out positive. We should be giving birth within a few weeks of each other. I feel reassured that I’m not alone.

I buy every woman’s pregnancy bible, What to Expect When You’re Expecting, and since I want to give my baby the healthiest possible start, What to Eat When You’re Expecting. Happily, these books encourage you to eat a Daily Dozen servings from various nutritious food groups. Less happily, I discover that coffee and cakes don’t belong to any particular food group except for maybe "useless carbs" and "empty calories," and therefore have no place in a pregnant woman’s diet. This is going to be work.

Pros: Chest enlarging to Russ Meyer-B-movie-babe proportions. Will not need breast augmentation for at least a full nine months. Stomach getting firmer without the help of ab crunches.

Cons: Have to wear a sports bra to bed. Hearty appetite followed by nausea, which maybe I should give into once in a while. Stepped on a scale and am shocked and horrified to see I am nine pounds heavier than I was two months ago!

The second month (weeks 7 to 11)

At seven weeks, we have our first ultrasound. Nothing matches the profound joy of hearing your baby’s heartbeat and seeing miraculous evidence of a new being, but deciphering the sonogram picture is worse than figuring out a Rorschach inkblot. We see what looks like a tiny embryo with a head, arms (or is that the heart?) and what the doctor identifies as a yolk sac. I thought only poultry and eggs had yolk sacs.

Wardrobe issues are already rearing their ugly heads. I look big in clothes and it’s the dreaded in-between stage where everyone thinks I’m just getting fat. One of our store employees puts a comforting hand on my shoulder and observes, "Ma’am, lumalaki ka yata. (You’re getting bigger.)" I resist the urge to bat her hand away and patiently explain that I’m pregnant.

My aunt, who just arrived from the States, doesn’t help matters much. She takes one look at me and announces I’m going to have a boy. How does she know this early in the game? "Your features are getting rougher," she intones in that all-knowing way of hers.

Whatever healthy glow I might have had in the first month is definitely gone now, replaced by the sickly green glow of queasiness. Whoever called it "morning" sickness anyway? What a total misnomer for a state that grips you 24/7. Instead, they should have termed it "All You Do Is Spew." I remember seeing Arnold Schwarzenegger’s wife Maria Shriver on a talk show once, and couldn’t forget how she said her morning sickness was so violent it would come out of her nose (Letterman understandably winced). No similar Exorcist-style projectile vomiting for me, thank God.

After an initial sedentary phase brought on by the paralyzing summer heat, I begin to stir after the sun goes down. To be honest, my father galvanizes me to move my butt, or else. A pulmonary specialist, he lectures me over the phone about my weight after having a tete-a-tete with my obstetrician. "Don’t you have a pool near where you live? You do? Then why aren’t you swimming every day?!" Apparently, I have to train like an athlete preparing for a 10K marathon to ease the pain of delivery. Taking his words to heart, I fashion a daily schedule of swimming, doing low-impact aerobics or taking half-hour walks up and down the hills of our subdivision while looking at houses.

I’m less enthused about eating after the lecture, but I cook the healthiest thing I can think of, lentil soup, and swear off all junk food so that the baby gets good nutrients. The fascist routine pays off: at the weigh-in this month, my doctor lauds me for losing three pounds.

The third month (weeks 12 to 15)

Everyone comments on how I’m glowing, therefore I’m probably carrying a girl. Ha! We shall see after my second ultrasound at 24 weeks.

From reading the news, I learn I’m unwittingly part of a new celebrity trend: having a baby. This year alone, my fellow mothers-to-be include style icons Sarah Jessica Parker and Cynthia Nixon of Sex and the City, singer Bjork, actresses Anne Heche, Julianne Moore and Elizabeth Hurley, and from the younger set, model Kate Moss. Like ultimate older mom Madonna, most of these women are over 35, I note, which makes it fashionable to be a more mature mother. Suddenly, the hottest new accessory isn’t a beaded clutch or Brad Pitt on your arm, but a pregnant belly.

Even my poor hubby has reluctantly joined the celebrity bandwagon. Scott is suffering from sympathetic pregnancy symptoms, like an expanding tummy and nausea. It could be Couvade syndrome. Then again, it could be the 11 cups of coffee with milk and sugar he chugs every day.

Here, the most common (and commonly annoying) question you will probably be asked throughout your pregnancy is, "What are you craving?" I’m sorry to have to report it’s not pickles and ice cream, though I’m always up for the ice cream part (hold the pickles). I’m still disappointed that Rocky Road is not medically considered a good source of calcium. But even if I have to drink a pailful of milk every day to compensate, I still thank my lucky stars that, 1) I’m not lactose-intolerant, like the rest of my family, and 2) I’m not like that woman I read about who would crave and eat clay for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Mercifully, I notice a decrease in my daytime nausea but still have it at night, especially when brushing my teeth. Another pregnancy myth (for first-timers, anyway) is that morning sickness lasts only the first three months. It doesn’t magically disappear; it dissipates over the course of more like five months (sorry, ladies).

Pros: Thankfully, there are certain symptoms I seem to have bypassed, like ptyalism, or excessive salivation. Am not drooling like a rabid dog yet.

Cons: Blue veins sprouting in unsightly places. Clothes tighter in the waist and bust. (Have to stash that adorable H&M top in the meantime.) And feet seem to have grown a half size. Can barely fit into open-toed sandals and once-springy workout Reeboks now feel like Chinese foot-binding devices. (To be continued)