Dear Pants,

I really thought we would have more time together. I didn’t feel bloated in the beginning, and you seemed just as comfy as ever over the last few weeks. But here I am chugging away through week eight, not even showing, and suddenly I must rig your buttons and clasps with rubber bands or suffer extreme discomfort. I hope you don’t mind being left mostly undone as I sit at my desk all day. It certainly lessens the hassle of trying to undo you in a hurry every time I have to get up and go to the restroom. I’m sure you understand my interest in that convenience.

But, Pants, I will miss you when rubber bands and long shirts no longer suffice. I hope that I will one day fit into all of you again, but I have no delusions. I know that we may be separated for a long time, longer than a mere nine months. Because as much as we first-time mothers like to believe in mind over matter, matter can often be quite stubborn. Especially the matter that composes these changing bodies of ours.

I have been surprised by how good it feels to loosen you at my waist. I am surprised that it didn’t take very long for you to seem so small and tight, when I still don’t feel bigger at all, although I’m sure there have been other mothers’ pants that have served even less time in the first trimester than you have. So maybe I should really consider us lucky. Though the thought of replacing you with your elastic waisted cousins waiting for me on the racks at the department store is not only fashionably disconcerting, but it is also causing my budget to groan with the anticipation of making those purchases.

And so, until we are reunited when the clasps and buttons can comfortably close again, I bid you farewell. Though I am saddened by our parting, I do not feel as though I am loosing Pants, rather that I am gaining a child and a mother’s body, and I can take some comfort in that. And I trust that this goodbye will not be forever.

Sincerely yours,


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