Hips and breasts and abdomen expand even while baby is the size of a blueberry, driving me to secure my jeans with a rubber band, find refuge in my yoga pants.
But there aren't enough yoga pants for every day of the week, so yesterday I took to the aisles of Target and bought a pair of black maternity workout pants.
And I was fine, despite some of the anxiety that still boils up unexpectedly just beneath the surface all the while praying away the fears that I'll be back in my size eight jeans sooner than we're bargaining for.
This morning, laundry called my name and despite still feeling the weight of a hefty lingering cold in combination with the normal first trimester fatigue, I oblige its call
and I'm face to face with those maternity yoga pants
needing to be washed
tags still attached.
So I try them on to make sure they fit; they do.
But I knew they would.
I silently debate ripping off the tags and washing them clean, ready for wear ... or leaving them on for an easy return just in case ...
Before I can finish the thought, I throw up my hands to God, grab the pants off the sink, rip off the tags and say
"I trust You."
Heartracing, in the bathroom,
I find the pants aren't the only thing that are