Well, that was a comical clothing store visit. Just for fun, I tried on some maternity stuff, and boy did I look and feel ridiculous! After getting lost in a sea of fabric that the label identified as a blouse, I finally managed to poke my head through the neck hole only to find I was wearing a deflated dinghy. I can’t believe I’m actually going to grow big enough to wear such a thing. I double-checked the tag before returning it to the rack just to make sure I had a medium.

Even worse, I think all the cute maternity pants were low-rise. Who thought that up? A man? A twenty-two-year-old female designer who hadn’t seen a pregnant belly up close before? Gross. I want my stomach completely covered, not playing peek-a-boo with strangers on the street (or people I actually know, for that matter).

I’m so glad the pants with the elastic waist fit. Before I tried them on, it was like I was in pregnancy limbo—not small enough to wear my regular clothes, but certainly not big enough to wear maternity couture.

Speaking of clothes, it looks like I’m not the only one who’s going to be needing some this pregnancy. We’re going to have to take out a loan to refurbish Chip’s wardrobe. In the past I’ve always thrown his golf shirts in the dryer for just ten minutes to get the wrinkles out before hanging up the shirts to air dry. If I leave them in the dryer any longer they’ll shrink. But now that I’m pregnant, I can’t remember to take the shirts out, and I certainly can’t remember to set the kitchen timer just ten yards away. No matter how much I stand there tossing clothes in the dryer while repeating the mantra “set the timer, set the timer, set the timer,” as soon as the laundry room door shuts, I’ve forgotten. I would just set the dryer for ten minutes if I could ever think of it.

Score so far: Preggy Brains 2, Golf shirts 0.