Emily Kaye Lazzaro

Amusing anecdotes almost entirely about myself.

19 Weeks


I hate these pictures and think they make me look doofy but I think a visual is helpful and informative so I’m going to keep doing it.

Anyway. I don’t know. I’m fine. Whatever. I don’t know. My head is pounding today. Every time I stand up I feel like my brain is going to explode. The sinus thing really kicks my ass in pregnancy. There are all these symptoms you can have, and I don’t have all of them, and that’s good, but yikes the ones I do have are unpleasant. And what the fuck do sinuses have to do with being pregnant? At least I’m not constipated I guess. It’s Friday, and I’m sharing a lot.

Listen, it’s fine. Everything is great. Pregnancy is so temporary. The baby is the size of a “large mango.” Cool.

It’s a girl, by the way. Full set! Super pumped. I also would have been totally happy with two boys because Evan is a perfect thing and why wouldn’t I want another one exactly like him, but this will be a big adventure and I’m nothing if not always looking to complicate the shit out of my life.

Baby Girl is kicking me very much and it is still early enough that it is mega cute and not painful or rib-reaching or anything, and I’m really happy about that. Just kickin’ around in there, living her little tadpole life.

A girl! I really like being a woman and most things associated with it (except for pregnancy and the ABSOLUTE UNFAIRNESS of breastfeeding, but that’s nature and nature is not fair). In my case the things I love about being a woman are super cis, hetero-normative things like hair and dresses and painting nails and walking slowly through the mall touching things while having long conversations about people’s inner lives. I hope she gets to have that too. And frankly, I hope Evan also knows the joys of walking through a J.Crew at 11am on a Saturday and talking about compassion and The Future and how to be a good person and do you think I can pull off espadrilles with the straps that go up your ankle. Because those are good times. And then going and getting a pretzel.

Billy and I have a small fear that new baby will be the absolute opposite of Evan. That she’ll be a very picky eater who doesn’t sleep at night and screams at a very high pitch. But also maybe she will be a super good napper and a normal breastfeeder (as opposed to an every hour on the hour breastfeeder like some of us) and maybe she won’t eat us out of house and home, who knows? Guessing about this stuff is sort of fun but also sort of stressful when you are a control monster.

Speaking of being a control monster, our new house is still majorly under construction and the other day I freaked out and started looking at places to stay for 10 days after we move and haha that would cost us around $2,000. Or more! We are moving on Tuesday and our house won’t really be done until August 14th, when we return from a week-long family vacation. But we don’t leave for the vacation until August 5th, so we have from July 26th through August 5th to basically camp out in our construction zone of a house. We can’t move our furniture in because we are refinishing the floors while we are on vacation. God, all of this is so mind-numbingly boring. I have a lot of respect for contractors for having to keep all this stuff in their heads. The toilet and sink can’t go in until the walls are painted. The walls can’t be painted until the tiles are in. The tiles can’t go in until they are delivered to the warehouse and somebody drives to godforsaken Waltham to pick them up and bring them to the house. And this is only the bathroom! We also have HVAC installation happening and holes in the floors and soffits to build. And every single wall to paint. HAHAHAHAhahahahacries.

But I’m trying to think of it as a fun adventure. We aren’t staying in a hotel, we are staying at our house that we own, and we are going to fill the living room with pillows and blankets and toys and we are going to play in the backyard a lot and it’s all going to be fine. We will read books and order takeout and have lots of picnics and it’s going to be great. Having a panic attack about it before it even happens is good and healthy for no one.

Also, can I just talk to you about little baby girls in sleeveless dresses? Their chubby little armsssssss. Hold on, google image searching that shit…

Thank you, internet:

blorp arms

Blorp. Let’s get one of those.

18 Weeks


Aren’t these pants fun? Such a mom thing to say.

So technically I am 18 weeks tomorrow, but I have to work tomorrow and then I have an appointment for an ultrasound to look at the genitals of the creature living inside me, so I figured I’d write this today.

I’m currently sitting in our new house, on the floor in the living room, watching about a bajillion dudes moving heavy things and drilling stuff and cutting wood and priming things. Thank you for doing these things for me in exchange for dollars, dudes! This is much better than every previous time Billy and I have moved to a new home and we had to do all this shit ourselves and I usually ended up crying in an empty bathtub. No crying this time. Or, I’m not crying right now, I can say that much!

I did have a small moment on Sunday night in which I cried to the point of hyperventilating because I’m scared of having two children. But that was Sunday and this is now. We are fine! Everything is going to be fine!

Billy and Evan are at Billy’s parents’ house today, Billy is working from there and Jeannine is playing with Evan and I am meeting with a color consultant (ugh who am I?) to help me pick paint colors, then I’m meeting the stone countertop person to give her a check. And in the meantime, I’m writing, supposedly.

Here’s something fun: Evan is in a bit of a complicated phase. He knows what “no” means but he is constantly testing his limits and seeing if my reaction is always the same when he kicks the dog. Yes, you always get a time out when you kick the dog, dude, don’t turn into Patrick Bateman, please please please. I know all toddlers are terrorist sociopaths, but it’s tough to deal with as an adult who hopes/expects people to treat her with a modicum of rationality and respect. Haha rationality and respect are not on the agenda right now.

It’s helpful to think of him as a tiny scientist constantly performing experiments. If I put my hand in the toilet water, she says no and removes me bodily from the room and makes me wash my hands. Interesting. What if I do it a second time? Same thing. Very interesting. And a third time? Yes, the same outcome, yet she appears to be acting differently. I wonder how many times I would have to do it before she puts me in the garbage can and runs away to Mexico? 

His little brain is just collecting data. It’s not personal, Emily.

So, you know, we are working on that.

I feel like I really have no time to think about being pregnant. I much prefer this to last time, when it was all I could ever think about and all I ever thought was “I fucking hate this.”

Tune in next time for the revelation of the aforementioned genitals!

17 Weeks


Oh who cares about this at all?

Alternately, it might be nice to have a small moment of escape from bad news. I will get there.

One thing, first. Evan’s daycare is in Dorchester. It’s one of the most affordable daycares I’ve been able to find in our area. He is one of, I think, 2 white boys in his toddler class. There is one white girl and the rest of the 12 toddlers are latino/a or black or multiracial. I hope that Evan grows up seeing a bunch of different kinds of people and that his generation in general will be better than ours.

This stuff has always happened but now we know about it, because of social media and cameras and mainstream media coverage. So now it can change.

I don’t know, everything is very bad. Let’s all try to raise our babies to be better than we were.

Now for a moment of escape. Yesterday, Evan and I went to our new house to look at the gutted bathroom and talk about kitchen counters and all kinds of bullshit like that. We also went to a bath showroom to consider a few vanity and medicine cabinet options. Not the best place for a toddler to spend his time, really. But the bath showroom had lots of bathtub displays, including one with a movable sensual massager shower head. Evan picked it up and put it to his ear and said “he-woh” because it looked like a phone. Not like an iPhone, the only real phone he has ever encountered, it being 2016, but like a landline. How does he even know about landlines? Though, he also picks up Legos of various sizes and says hello into them, and they don’t look like any kind of phone that has ever existed. He also touched all the handles of everything that was within his reach and said “cool.” He’s a fun guy to have around.

I keep forgetting I’m pregnant. Do people who are pregnant for a second time frequently forget they are pregnant and accidentally sleep on their backs and die? Is that a thing? Because it’s a concern of mine.

It’s not recommended that pregnant women eat deli meat, unpasteurized cheeses, sushi, etc, but I love deli meat so so so much and I’ve been eating it anyway. Billy asked me to stop because he gets worried and because my mom got listeria when she was pregnant with my brother and we think that’s why he has anxiety (hi Will!) and Billy said he would quit coffee if I quit deli meat. I told him to keep drinking coffee because we don’t need another thing, but I’m trying to steer clear of deli meat. And I’m being a fucking martyr about it. I wish I didn’t love deli meat so much. I’m allowed to eat it if I cook it enough that it steams (what?) so you might find me in the next few weeks just cooking sliced turkey in a pan like a crazy person, trying to see steam. Maybe it will even make it taste better? Oh fuck it, I’ll just eat hummus like a normal person. 5 more months of this nonsense. Then I’m done forever.

Related: anyone have any thoughts on vasectomies? Maybe it’s time somebody else’s tender bits get messed around with, is all I’m saying.


16 Weeks

IMG_6500This week has been a doozy, you guys.

On Sunday, Daisy stole a nicely brined pork chop off the kitchen counter. Billy rescued it and cut off the weird bits and we ate it anyway, and it tasted fine, but it was not the best thing that has ever happened. Then we had a bath tub situation. Evan was sitting in the tub, like a perfect angel, and then he looked me in the eye and said with the clarity of an adult human, “stinky poop.” I said “DO YOU HAVE TO POOP????” And he leaned one butt cheek gingerly up off the floor of the tub and pooped.

This is the kind of story Evan is going to be so glad I wrote about on the internet.

Anyway, Sunday, the day of stolen pork chops and tub poop, was the least ridiculous day of this week.

On Monday, a lady I barely know accosted me in the bathroom and asked me how far along I am. I haven’t officially announced that I’m pregnant everywhere in my life yet, but I guess I’m showing! I told her three months and change and she was SHOCKED. She was super shocked you guys. She said, “I thought you must be six months.” And that wasn’t the last thing she said! She talked to me about this subject for quite some time. On and on she went. She said I should check if it’s twins. I was good-naturedly self-deprecating through the whole conversation and subsequently hated myself for letting her off the hook. But she seems like one of those women who stands on the sidelines of little girls’ gymnastics classes, talking about who is looking especially chubby. She’s not worth it.

I took a special picture this week for her:


When I told Billy about it he said, quite succinctly, “I hope her butt falls off. She doesn’t deserve a butt.”

On Tuesday, Evan came down with something we thought was hand foot and mouth disease, which is a horrifying childhood illness that begins as a fever and ends with leprosy, basically. His fever topped out at 103 on Tuesday and we snuggled a lot and watched TV, which wasn’t that bad, but he was feeling poorly and that makes his mother sad inside. He stayed sick through Wednesday and by Thursday he was improving. The blisters never came and his doctor gave him the okay to go to daycare and all of a sudden he had all four canines, so I don’t know, it might have all been teething. Teething is a bitch, you guys. Let’s have another baby so we can do this a second time, she said. Having only one baby is too easy, she said.

Anyway, it’s fine, now it’s Friday, before a beautiful summer three day weekend and Evan is wearing a tank top at daycare so pretty much all is right with the world.

Hard to say, but I might have felt a little tap-tap last night. This might have been purely the power of suggestion, since I know some second-time pregnant women feel the baby move around week 16, and I might have just been paying super close attention to my digestive system, but whatever, who cares. I might have felt the baby move and I’ll take it.

15 Weeks


Yikes about stuff in the world, right? Social media is a burned-out hellscape so I might as well write something, you know what I mean? Let’s distract ourselves from the UK and Donald Trump and gun control by talking about me.

I don’t know, things are fine! I don’t feel sick anymore, which is fantastic. I feel really tired today because I didn’t get enough sleep last night. Haha this is the most boring post I have ever written. You’re kidding, Emily, you’re tired because you didn’t sleep enough?! PLEASE TELL ME MORE! GO INTO DETAIL!

The baby is the size of an avocado today. That feels big! I don’t know, I feel very hungry, but it’s fun to be hungry because then you eat and you feel better! Oh my god, will the epiphanies never cease?!

A cool thing about this pregnancy that is different from being pregnant with Evan is that I do not give A SINGLE FUCK about what I look like. Last weekend, I was at the playground with Evan and Billy and we were getting ready to leave and I got distracted by this insanely barking dog and I was like somebody get that dog away from the children and while I was thinking that very basic mom thought, I accidentally walked into a low balance beam at the playground and swiped my own legs out from under me. Now I have two disgusting bruises on my shins. Sidenote: shins are stupid. They are so tender and delicate and they are right in the middle of everything and so easily injured. Get it together, shins. Either be tougher or be in a more easily protected region of the body. I trust you to get on that, evolution. But yeah so I have these gnarly bruises, that stretch from my knees to my ankles, and are all manner of bruise colors: purple, yellow, brown, green, you name it! And I keep wearing shorts anyway. And skirts and dresses and just being like LOOK AT MY BRUISES, WORLD, I CARE NOT! You’re lucky I didn’t take a picture and post it here.

When I was pregnant with Evan, I was young enough and maybe childless enough to care about what I looked like. I was also still acting, up through the first trimester of that pregnancy, and there’s definitely some concern about physical looks associated with acting (haha she just keeps saying things nobody has ever said before, and so eloquently!) so that probably had something to do with it, but now. Oh now. Now I could not be bothered. It’s wonderful.

But I do see how those people end up on makeover shows. They stop giving a fuck in the ’90s, pick a haircut and just keep getting it forever, keep wearing that Tweety Bird sweatshirt because it’s the most comfortable one they own, and then one day a camera crew shows up at their house and it’s a big shock. If a camera crew shows up at my house in 15 years, all I’m saying is, I called it in 2016. I see where I’m headed and I’m not afraid.


Reasons I don’t want to write this blog post right now:

My hands are sweaty

I should be working on the novel

I should be working on that short story I’m building in my head

The coffee I’m drinking is hot and not iced and it’s too warm today for that noise, this must be remedied immediately

It’s been too long since I’ve updated and if you don’t update your blog with regularity, all of your posts become about how you’re sorry you haven’t written  in so long and that is boring

Reasons I need to write this blog post right now:

Writing in this blog is immediate and gratifying

Writing easy, quick things here gets the ball rolling and makes it easier for me to write “real” things

Billy and Evan are at my in-laws today so that I can write so I better start writing or I’m a hack


Now that that is out of the way. I just had to order groceries from Whole Foods on Instacart and have them delivered to me, which is the privilege-est thing anyone has ever said, if my readership was wider I’m sure it would get reposted somewhere and my character would be disparaged, and perhaps deservedly! The reason I had to do that is because I’m almost 15 weeks pregnant with a human baby and Billy just broke his arm playing soccer. And we just have the one car.

Billy notoriously breaks his arms. It’s because he’s very good at soccer and when he is in good shape and believing in himself he tries hard to win games and he is 34 and his bones are brittle. Maybe he should take a calcium supplement, I don’t know, I’m not a doctor. But this break is not as bad as when he broke his arm one week before our wedding (haha) and he can still do most things, just not lift our child, which is an annoyance but not a real crisis. I’m out of the first trimester so I have a little more energy and I’m a strong person, I can lift my baby. And Evan can walk. We are fine. We just couldn’t make it to the grocery store. And I don’t have to justify anything to you, but I ordered from Whole Foods because the Instacart prices are the same as in-store and I do what I want, okay? Okay, cool.

Anyway, I’m pregnant. Which is wonderful! And I’m feeling pretty good and am determined to have a better time of it than last time, health-wise and attitude-wise. It’s already easier because at this point I don’t give a fuck what I look like and I don’t go out to bars anymore so it’s not really that different from normal, except I can’t run and it’s tiring taking care of my son, but whatever, it’s easier emotionally. Would you guys be interested in me doing the weekly update thing that I did last time? That was kind of fun, so if you liked it leave a comment and I’ll do it again. It will be good motivation for me to continue to “be a writer.”

Also we sold our condo and are moving to a house. We are having some issues with the closing on the house and renovations are shockingly expensive and we still need to pack and move and these things are challenging with toddler, pregnancy, broken arm, but we are so lucky and privileged that I can’t even honestly get that upset about it. My perspective has been adjusted over the past few years. And the world is such a fiery garbage pile that my little slice of white person with software engineer husband just doesn’t even compare, in any way, to the challenges facing many, many people. And I see that now. I wonder if this will make my weekly pregnancy updates very boring? “Things are fine! I am very lucky!” end of blog post. But whatever, this is how I see the world now. I think it’s better this way.

Okay, this was fun! Writing in a blog is fun! Look at me, writing.

Let me know if you want more pregnancy stuff, and I’ll make it happen, goddamnit. Because I care about you. And because I love attention.

An open letter to the couple sitting next to me at the ramen place at 2:45pm on a Thursday:

spicy miso ramen

This place is usually really popular, like there’s always a line, even though it’s a hole in the wall in a glorified cafeteria. If you make good ramen, the people will come. But at 2:45pm on a Thursday, it’s almost deserted. Not totally deserted, there were a couple college kids and me, sitting by myself, playing with my phone and shoveling spicy miso ramen into my mouth like I hadn’t eaten in a decade. You, the couple I am writing this to, were seated two tables away from me. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but it was a weird time to be eating ramen and there wasn’t much going on and I was alone, instead of wrestling ramen into the mouth of an unruly toddler, and it was quiet, so I heard you.

You guys were not being annoying at all! You were being super normal. You weren’t sobbing or acting like zombies or anything, even. I think you were handling your situation really well. Or maybe you cried in the car or at the doctor’s and now you’re hungry because you cried through lunch. Now you’re making plans for moving forward.

I was reading articles on my phone, when I had a hand free, but mostly I was just eating as quietly as one can eat ramen. I heard you say, “He’s a gynecologist, not an OB” and I wondered if you were planning to get pregnant. I got excited for you! And then I heard you say, “yeah, like 20%, so…” which perked my ears up because I know a lot about miscarriages.

I had three miscarriages in 2013 so I know everything you can know about miscarriages, which is that they happen in 20% of pregnancies and it’s usually for some mysterious chromosomal reason that doesn’t make any sense and means basically nothing. I know that running doesn’t cause them. I know that cocaine use does cause them. So don’t do cocaine, I guess, which is good advice for anyone probably anyway. There isn’t much to know about miscarriages. They suck and they happen a lot.

I heard a few more things that started to confirm my suspicions. Then I heard the woman say, “I do still want to go away with you, though, before we can try again,” and I burst into tears. The tears were the kind that just flow out of your eyes like somebody turned a faucet on, with no accompanying sobs. I was very surprised by the crying! Just like, oop, we are crying now! I think I played off the nose blowing and face wiping by attributing it to the spicy ramen. I didn’t tell anyone the ramen was spicy, but I felt I communicated it to the waitress with my very expressive, tear-soaked eyes. “Oh man, what a spicy ramen you gave me!” my eyes said. “What a silly white person I am! I cannot handle the spice!”

I guess I cried because I remembered having that conversation. A very sad thing about having a miscarriage is that it’s sort of like finding out you are going to Disney World, buying a plane ticket, reserving a hotel room, and packing your bag, only to discover that Disney World doesn’t exist, never existed. And you have to cancel your plane ticket. And you feel stupid for ever thinking that Disney World did exist.

While I was crying I wanted to talk to you. I didn’t, because I decided there was nothing I could say that would be helpful. I thought about it, though. I thought about saying, “I’m sorry for eavesdropping but I heard you and I want you to know that I had three miscarriages and it sucks and I’m so sorry this is happening to you, hang in there.” But then I thought you would be like “holy shit, three? We just had one! There might be two more coming?” Or that you would feel like I was invading your very personal conversation. So I just paid for my ramen and left. And called my husband and cried for a few more minutes. And then it was fine.

I’m sure you guys will be okay and everything and I’m glad I didn’t talk to you because I was very clearly making your experience about myself. But whatever. Now I’m obviously making it about myself by writing about it on the Internet. My point here is that this shit happens a lot and it’s terrible and I’m sorry. I’m sorry that it happened to you and that it happens to a lot of people all the time. I’m sorry Disney World doesn’t exist right now. But it might exist later, if you try again.

The Disney World metaphor has broken down.

I’m not even sure there’s anything to be learned from having a miscarriage or two or three. I want there to be something to be learned. But it’s probably just like any kind of loss. The thing to be learned is that it happens once and then it continues to happen for the rest of your godforsaken time on this planet and there’s nothing to be done. There is so much loss and so much suffering.

But there is also spicy miso ramen. And if you’re lucky enough to be around in the mid-afternoon on a weekday, you won’t even have to wait in line for it.

Do the Work

I read somewhere once that the answer to anxiety is almost always to do the work. I try to ask myself questions sometimes when I’m feeling anxious. Why are you feeling anxious, Self? I ask. Sometimes at work the answer is “because I have to read that long email and I don’t want to.” Well, Self, I say, you know the solution to this conundrum, don’t you? Maybe, I say back. So then go ahead. And I read the long email that seemed very daunting but is, in actuality, not very daunting at all. The solution, in that scenario, is to do the work.

This doesn’t always apply, but most of the time it does. And anyway, if it doesn’t apply, it’s probably because the source of anxiety is out of my control, and therefore, who fucking cares? I can’t make it better so why worry about it in the first place? Like, I can’t control my son, after a certain point. I can contain him and give him the things he needs, but I can’t give him everything he may want, nor would that be prudent. There is no work to be done to solve the problem of having a toddler, which is a problem, in and of itself, but a temporary one with many delightful solutions, including parks and strollers and gates and Elmo. But what I’m talking about are the sources of anxiety that are exclusively due to my own laziness.

Here’s another example:
We are going to sell our condo and move to a house. We have to sell the condo first because money does not grow on trees. This means that the fun part of moving, i.e. the searching online for houses, the going to see said houses, the excitement of trying to get one of the houses, must wait. First, we have to do the HORRIBLE, EXCRUTIATING WORK of getting our house ready to be sold. It’s the worst. Seriously, you guys, it’s mighty uncomfortable to think about going through the basement and throwing away all the trash two to three people have accumulated in four years. It makes my chest feel constricted when I think about all the furniture that will have to be moved, all the culling of coats and family photographs and knick knacks and office supplies and shoes.

But then I ask myself, why are you feeling anxious about this? Because I don’t want to do it, I answer. Well, too bad, I say back. And then I make a schedule for when we will have people coming in to do some updates on the bathroom. And then I make a quick dinner and we go down to the basement and listen to Rihanna and clean out the nightmare hoarder basement. If we do it a little at a time, it is not so bad. If we just do the work, the anxiety dissipates. And we fall into bed exhausted, but progress has been made. And aren’t we the luckiest people in the fucking world, anyway? That this is the biggest cause of our anxiety? Please. We are not war-torn. We are not homeless. We are not sick.

I will leave you now with our basement-cleaning soundtrack, from your girl, Rihanna:

Rihanna and I both hope that you see this through.

Two Things

Geo Ch8 Test ans1

Thing the first: I am going to tell you a story.

On Monday evening, after Evan had dinner and right before bedtime, we had a rollicking good time. Billy works from home on Mondays, so he was there, and we were riling Daisy up, howling at her and messing around with her and trying to get her to play. Daisy is sort of bad at playing. Usually she stands near where other dogs or people are playing in a normal dog/person way and she barks/howls at them. Sometimes, when she’s with a dog she’s really comfortable with, she will get going and run around in circles and have a grand old time, but she can’t just jump into it. It takes finesse. Anyway, that’s not what this story is about.

Billy and I were howling at Daisy, lifting our chins and saying “Roooooo!” up at the ceiling, imitating Daisy’s hound dog howl. Evan was playing with Daisy by crawling into her side with the top of his head or crawling through her legs, under her belly.

At one point, Evan stopped doing his crawling/knocking into Daisy thing and stood up. And he lifted his chin to the ceiling and said, “Rooooo!”

Evan doesn’t really repeat things we say. When I say, “Can you say mama?” he looks at me with curiosity. He can say mama when he wants to, but he’s not a repeater.

This behavior continued for a few minutes.

Emily: Rooooo!
Billy: Rooooo!
Evan: Rooooo!
Daisy: Rooooo!

Et cetera.

I almost cried with joy.

Thing the second: I am going to try to explain the significance of this moment.

Sometimes when people talk about their kids they say asinine things like “Sometimes I feel so full of love that I am afraid my heart will burst,” or, like, “We are already so in love with our little one,” or other, similar meaninglessness. People say those things because that is what they feel, and those words are as close as they can come to explaining it, but as a writer, I want to do better. I want to accurately describe the indescribable.

I am trying now to put into words what it felt like when Evan howled. He was playing with us in a real way that was on par with how we were playing, which he has never done. He was being a person, maybe for the first time.

It was like…

Dreaming in a second language.

Being in 10th grade and studying for a long time and finally understanding a math concept and then taking a test and getting 100%.

Doing a perfect butterfly stroke and winning a race.

Winning any kind of race, really. Running or rowing or cycling or whatever thing you can win when you used to think you couldn’t even do the thing at all.

Listening to a song that would be playing on the soundtrack if your life was a movie, at the exact moment when, in the movie, this would be happening. Perhaps you are riding off into a literal sunset.

Being in 7th grade and telling someone you like them (like like them, in that way) and having them say that they have liked you in that way for a long time and then you kiss your very first kiss.


For the record, none of those things has ever happened to me. Maybe the 10th grade math one, but I probably got a 95%, at most. But on Monday evening, my son howled, and the way it felt was like all the things I just listed combined.

It was very nice.

How Are We Saying “Fuck The Patriarchy” Today?

Hello my dears!

I’ve been doing some thinking about my clothes.

Since becoming a mother and turning 30 shortly thereafter, I’ve done some culling of my wardrobe. My body went all over the place for awhile (I GAINED AND LOST 75 POUNDS Y’ALL) and my feet grew longer and wider and they have not shrunk back to their original size/shape. This necessitated some moving around of clothing items, some short term storage, some long term storage, some trips to Goodwill, some trips to the Internet for shopping, etc etc etc, on and on, for like two years.

Not only has my body gone through some changes, but my heart and mind have evolved a bit over this time as well. I’m significantly less interested in wearing high heels or shoes of any sort that hurt my feet. I’m more interested in comfort in general. I’m way more interested in pants.

Practicality and comfort and, to a certain extent, badass, respectable lady business clothes are becoming more of a thing in my life. And I think these new interests are a great way for me to say Fuck the Patriarchy.

How’s that, you say? Let me explain.

I used to dress a lot like Zooey Deschanel in New Girl. Lots of nipped-in waists, bright colors, and swirly skirts. The reason I dressed this way was mostly because I was more comfortable accentuating my positive physical attributes, like a narrow waist and cute pre-baby boobs, and these outfits did that for me. Another reason was because I thought it spoke to my spirit, it brought me joy, and being cute made me feel happy, comfortable, and a little powerful.

But now that I am a 30 year old mother, being cute doesn’t make me feel as powerful as it used to. Now it is more important to me that I can move quickly, sit on the floor easily, and look cool rather than cute. Young is not something I want to look. I’m not that young anymore. I want to look awesome.

One way to look awesome is to look a tiny bit ugly.

The ugliness I’m talking about isn’t the “oh I’m as beautiful as Taylor Swift but I’m wearing glasses.” It’s the “maybe I’m a little tired from trying to have it all and I’m wearing clogs and overalls and glasses and maybe half my head is shaved.”

I dressed like a cute girl when I was in my 20s I think partially, subconsciously, because of the patriarchy. I did it because my hips were wide and I thought that was bad and I should play up the other parts of me that the patriarchy deemed attractive. The power came from having qualities that men found valuable and playing them up. Now I think my power might come from having what makes me feel valuable, and not needing anyone to back it up at all. What makes me feel powerful now is moving fast, being physically strong, having a good head on my shoulders, thinking smart thoughts, and being in control of myself and my wee one.

I don’t have time to worry about my hips anymore. I need to grab a fast-moving kiddo, I need to wipe boogers and food on my pants, I need to go to work and look like someone who is in charge of money, I need to pay people to help me take care of my family. And also, these hips are fucking awesome. They birthed a baby. The grew and shrank and they carry my body around all day. My hips are cool.

So I’m not going to hide my hips anymore. I’m not going to stuff my feet into uncomfortable shoes anymore. I am working on a new uniform for this new person I am.

Fuck The Patriarchy Having It All Uniform:









That’s how I’m saying fuck the patriarchy today. How about you???