Fitting in to prepregnancy clothes, or the ways in which we delude ourselves

The weekend before I found out I was pregnant, I bought new jeans.

The purchase of denim has been a pretty standard thing for me for years. Gap Long and Lean, size 6. They covered what they needed to cover and made my ass look like I wasn't 38. Plus, they were easy. I like easy. The only thing I had to worry about when I went to the store was choosing the colour of the denim.

So this time, when I grabbed the denim that delighted me and I strolled in to the dressing room and pulled them on, I expected them to just fit. But this time? I couldn't close them. The 6 was.. tight. Uncomfortable.

This is when the denial kicked in.

Ha, hahaha! I thought. The gap has obviously changed their sizing. That had to be it, I convinced myself. I grabbed the size 8 and pulled them on, satisfyingly buttoning them shut. All they've done is correct the vanity sizing, I said to myself.

Three days later, I peed on a stick and it all became very clear. Suddenly, these were no longer re-vanity-sized jeans. These were baby bloat jeans.

I wore those jeans for another ten weeks, until the belly began to assert itself and maternity pants became the only option.

I didn't bother trying those jeans on until about four weeks ago. Why torture myself, I reasoned. To my delight, when I finally slipped them on, I was able to fasten the button without having to suck my gut up to my tonsils. Hallelujiah!

I didn't push my luck. I didn't try on the jeans that fit *before* the baby bloat jeans.

It's like there's a progression of clothing that one fits in to post pregnancy. Stage one, you get back in to the mat clothes you outgrew. (Yes, I outgrew mat clothes. Shut up.) Stage, two, you get back in to the non-maternity but larger-size clothes you bought in the first trimester. Stage three, you fit back in to the stuff you wore when you got pregnant. Then there is the largely mythical stage four, when you fit back in to the stuff you haven't worn since well before pregnancy, the stuff in the back of the closet that you told everyone the dry cleaner had shrunk. Even though the stuff hadn't actually been to the dry cleaner.

Yesterday, in an orgy of organization, I cleaned out the closet. And I found a pair of Stage Three trousers. Nervously, I pulled them on. OK, they were stretchy fabric and OK, the vertical stripes were forgiving. Never mind. I got them closed. Followed by a triumphant shout of "prepregnancy pants!" and a dance of joy around the living room.

Someone tell me Stage four is not far behind.