Jimmy Choo Never Had Edema

Current members of the "mom club" warned me these days--the third trimester--were coming, but I was in denial. For the first few months of my pregnancy, 24-hour nausea and a chronic case of narcolepsy reminded me that little A was swimming around in my womb. Then, the blissful second trimester honeymoon began. My nausea was replaced with a penchant for iceberg lettuce and fettucini, a bigger cup size, and a respectable little baby bump to justify my first maternity jeans--cute, boot-cut denim with an elastic band below my belly. At my 25 week check-up, I had gained just 16 pounds. Perfect. And then it happened: I entered the third trimester. Or, what I like to call the official kick-off of Mommy Martyrdom. Those cute under-the-belly elastic jeans fell down halfway to the bus stop as they no longer had anything resembling a hip to grab, and I began to walk like an old sway-back mare. And then came the ankles. Or, more accurate: There went my ankles. 

Mid-Blog Disclaimer: I know this is a silly thing in the grand scheme of things, and that I have been incredibly blessed in the fertility and pregnancy department, but shoes are important. They say something about a woman. Regularly polished and scuff-free,a pair of quality loafers or heels says, "I have my shit together." And, no matter what size we are, we can buy a new pair of heels and feel fabulous, put together, and just generally on it. 

New Year's Eve, I got dressed up in my most festive maternity digs, blow-styled my hair, lined my lips, and accessorized before putting on my shoes and heading out for our last New Year's Eve celebration sans children. As I stood at my closet, I felt like Coleridge's ancient sailor in "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," a sea of shiny leather boots, peep-toe pumps, kitten heels, and sequined slides surrounded me. I couldn't bend over to reach my black leather Franco Sarto ankle boots, much less fit them over my foot. But I wanted to try, so I called for reinforcements, aka my husband, who had just slipped into his cool Steve Maddens. 

He walked in, took one look at me and then my closet floor and knew that he had encountered what he likes to call a "blue wire/red wire" scenario. There would be no right answer to my question, "Honey, can you help me with my shoes?" So, he did what any good partner does for a third-trimester woman. He reached down and picked up the boots while I laid on the bed with my swollen ankles in the air. "Well, let's give it a try," he said, just before he placed the boot on my big toe. That's as far as it went. My big toe. He looked at me pleadingly as I began to cry and recited in a barely audible whisper, "Water water everywhere and not a drop to drink..." He slowly removed the hip pre-baby boot from my toe, reached for my clunky slip-on clogs, and said, "Tomorrow we'll go buy you new shoes to get you through and before you know it you'll be back in boots and  heels." He also threw in some compliments about my sparkly maternity wear and said I smelled fabulous. Crisis averted.

We had a great time on New Year's Eve, stayed up until 1:00 celebrating with friends and then came home and kicked off our shoes. And, true to his word, K took me shoe shopping the next day, detouring me from the bright and shiny, pointy heel shoe displays and saying all the right things, like, "those aren't so bad" as he laced up my new, size 9, fashion-athletic sneakers. I realized just how cramped my poor edema-ridden ankles had been in my vain attempt to keep wearing size 7. I felt like I could walk a mile! Or, at least to the parking lot.