As my medical records and the blisters all over my body within hours of pushing out Holden can attest, I am allergic to being pregnant. And as these pictures prove, I look like someone who is having an allergic reaction to something (something, for instance, like looking normal and happy).
Last week, I made the trek to Walmart for the second time in four months. (The first time was to get Eric a Christmas present and it took me three days of strategizing to figure out how I could get in and out of the store without making any of my internal organs external ones.) I picked up a few items before I knew I was making a mistake and wobbled up to the cashier, grimaced in pain, leaned over the conveyer belt and let out some well-practiced Lamaze-type breaths. The cashier cheerfully called out, "Sister d'Evegnée? I think you were my English Teacher!" I attempted to lift the dumb-bells which are currently my cheeks into a smile. (See photo #3 to see what this looks like.) We engaged in what I hope was some light-hearted banter about the class and my pregnancy until I wrote the check and he asked for my driver's license. He nodded happily as he looked at the picture and said, "Yeah. THIS is what I remember you looking like!"
The summer I was with-Ethan, my parents decided to have a photo taken by a professional photographer. We had a large family shot and then got to pose for individual family shots. As each of my siblings and their families posed in turn, you could almost hear the perfectly pure beauty in the air as the camera clicked and clicked as if it was eating up their photogenic aura. When it was our turn, the photographer took one short look at me and yelled, "Can someone turn that bench around?" She didn't say anything to me except a terse,"Just look over your shoulder, okay?" (Which, frankly, was like asking a jello-salad to do a cartwheel.)
This lovely specimen was taken moments after Holden was born and, while I'm clearly not myself, you can see the relief in my face. That is, if you can find my eyes! My goodness. What was I thinking? It looks like I've given birth to a pair of glasses rather than a baby.
Apparently I was paying homage to my Dad's look circa 1978. Even though these pictures were taken twenty years apart, the eye-wear makes them timeless.
Why would I do this to myself (and to my face?) The picture on the left was taken a year ago. I like my face well enough. As faces go, I think it's a keeper. Why would I force myself to go through such a mucky metamorphosis?