I first fell in love with fashion amongst the grey metal stacks of my high school library during lunch. I had begun to retreat into there when the embarrassment of eating lunch alone became a bit too much for me. So it became a little tradition of mine. Every day I would escape into the silence of that large windowless room that would only occasionally be peppered with the sound of the photocopying machine. I would lay those glossy magazines across the table and dive into them while I nibbled at my lunch. And fall in love I did. I loved it all - the feathers, the garishness of it all, the four figure price tags and the angry/constipated looking models. It was a beautiful foil to my current existence - invisible, poorly dressed and awkward. I dreamt of the day that I would sail off into my future clad in Stella McCartney with long glossy locks.
In college, free from my preppy tormentors, I experimented with fashion. I tried everything - sexy, J.Lo (yes I went through a HUGE "Jenny from the Block" phase, and yes I have photos and no you can't ever see them), slutty, ladylike and everything in between. It was great fun. I watched SATC religiously and amassed quite a collection of fashion magazines. Suffice to say I was addicted. I loved the way I could change my personality simply by buying a new pair of pants. I loved the high I got from a new outfit. It was intoxicating.
My addiction continued well into adulthood. I spent a large part of our first years of marriage on a never ending chase of the "it" handbag, shoe, pant, etc... And then I kind of stopped. It all became incredibly exhausting. I didn't even know why I was buying certain items other than the fact that "everybody had it." Which seemed like a rather dumb reason for spending hundreds of dollars on something. I stopped buying expensive things and instead stuck to safer stores like Gap or J. Crew. I still didn't really know why I was buying or wearing certain things but at least my purchases lacked the guilt that used to sting me before. I read magazines like Lucky that made my choices easy for me with pages chock full of affordable put-together outfits that would look great on just about anyone.
It wasn't long before I began to despise fashion in general. It lost it's shiny veneer. It all seemed so silly and inconsequential. There was nothing glamorous about it to me anymore. The pages of Vogue just looked like a stack of nothing but credit card debt and wasted money. I stopped buying the magazines and the thought of fashion week would give me a mild rash. Somewhere around 2010 I politely ended my relationship with fashion. I took it from a break to a break-up.
Then I got pregnant last year and realized that it made me hate fashion even more. Every trip to a store seemed to leave me utterly frustrated and by eight months I just stopped shopping altogether. It was bad enough trying to find my sartorial place with my normal body! I was beyond lost.
Back in December after I had V I did a major closet clean-out. Four giant trash bags went to Goodwill and my closet shrunk to half it's size. However, I didn't run out and start buying clothes; I decided to give myself some time. And so I began to reacquaint myself with fashion.
I bought a couple magazines, I began to pin images that caught my eye and conveniently fashion season was in full swing. Little by little I began to fall in love with fashion all over again.
This time my love went deeper and felt more mature. I realized that just because I'm never going to buy that ridiculous $900 shoe doesn't mean I can't appreciate it or be inspired by it. The vast, colorful and wild fashion landscape was the perfect backdrop that I could use to build my new sense of style. Yes I am a mum now but it's not my child necessarily that has changed me. I feel different about my body now, I appreciate it more. I feel a different kind of attitude permeating my being these days too and that has changed how I want to look as well. And somehow amongst all the feathers, fur, leather and gaudiness I am finding myself again. I find that all the insanity that comes with high fashion leaves me much more room to breath and interpret than something more mainstream. It also makes me feel ok about the fact that I don't have a "look." Some individuals are able to always look more or less the same, albiet in a very effortless and chic fashion. I'm not one of them. Goodness knows I've tried but sooner or later something totally out of left field will beckon me and I'll be all over the place with my style again. I'm comfortable with that fact now. I don't care if one day I feel like wearing polka dots and ruffles and liquid leggings the next. I don't care if I'm girly, edgy, preppy, hipster and classy all in one week. I mean what fun is fashion if you think there are rules to it anyway??
So trust me I will still internally roll my eyes if I hear someone tell me that those pants are "speaking" them and I don't have an altar to Carine Roitfeld in my room. But I do have a considerable stack of fashion magazines on my coffee table that I peruse from time to time and I follow Miroslava Duma on Instagram. I suppose you could say I've found a healthy way to love and appreciate fashion. I'm not crazy about it but I don't hate it either. It has finally found it's rightful place in my life. And I have finally found my place in it too.

2006 - 2009 2009 - 2010 2010 - 2011 2011 - 2012

I've struggled a lot with whether or not I wanted to post my birth story but I ultimately decided to do it if only for the sake of remembering. The whole experience was so unlike anything that I had expected or ever experienced and I don't want to ever forget. I saw a very pregnant lady at Target the other day and all those memories rushed back. The fears, the frequent bathroom trips, the anxiety, the heaviness and the waiting, waiting, waiting. I went back home and looked at pregnant photos of myself. It's absolutely incredible the way our bodies are able to change and morph to accomodate a growing life. I cannot believe that it was this same little person that smiles at me and makes faces at the mirror was also the same little person I carried with me for nine months. It's enough to make me cry...
Valentina's birth story doesn't begin on the day she was born, December 11, instead it begins on Thursday the 28th of November. It was a long journey to that Tuesday morning...
I had been experiencing somewhat regular Braxton Hicks contractions all through the month of November so I was well acquainted with them, however what began to take place that Thursday night was a little different. The contractions started at around ten and I tried doing my breathing exercises. That worked for about two hours but by midnight they were stronger and only about two to three minutes apart. At that point I got in the tub, papa bear brought a blanket and joined me on the floor. We went back and forth with whether or not to call our midwife but ultimately decided against it. I breathed and moaned in that tub for two hours until the water had become frigid. We decided to move to the bed. It was two in the morning at this point. Husby rubbed my back for another hour and at around 3:30 or 4 we both dozed off from sheer exhaustion. I woke up the following morning feeling tired but more or less fine.


This scenario repeated itself on Saturday and Sunday. We still chose to wait since we had our second to last appointment that Tuesday anyway. So on Tuesday, December 4, we headed into our midwife's office. She checked me and found that I was 3 cm dilated, fully effaced and V's head was at station one. I was elated, it felt good to know all that "work" wasn't useless. However, my midwife tried her best to temper my excitement and told me it could still be three weeks before anything actually takes place. I had high hopes though... I refused to have my child's birthday be on Christmas (I just found it cruel). Stupidly I thought I could will this baby out of me.
I won't take you through the mundane days that followed, all of them more or less mirroring that Thursday. It became a routine for us - getting me through those nightly contractions. Our spirits were good and we continued to look forward to meeting our little baby soon. But by Friday I was completely done. I was feeling bigger and heavier than ever, we had both been getting next to no sleep and the endless cycle of contractions was starting to weight on me even more than my belly (which seemed to double in size every day). I called my mum sobbing that morning telling her I was going crazy and couldn't do it anymore. She called me back fifteen minutes later and said daddy and she would be on their way to us that afternoon. They spent the weekend distracting us, cooking for us and helping us feel a little bit normal again. We discussed emergency options and what we should talk about with our midwife at our next appointment.
After another round of contractions Sunday night I told husby I couldn't wait any longer and wanted to see our midwife the next day. On Monday, December 10, we went into her office around 11. I was praying ceaselessly that I would have progressed since last week. To my horror I was told that everything was the same... In addition I was told that this cycle could potentially keep going for another two weeks. I was ready to pull my hair out. Thankfully our midwife saw my desperation and suggested a membrane stripping. Side note: it is not a fun procedure at all. She once again made sure to temper any of our excitement since the procedure results in labor only thirty percent of the time. We drove home. Once home that afternoon I began to experience contractions again, nothing different from before but given that it was a day before our due date and we had had the procedure husby decided we should move to a hotel close to the hospital that night (we live approximately 45 minutes away from the nearest hospital). My parents had already taken the pets so we packed up our bags and headed out the door.
Of course by the time we got to the hospital the contractions had all but stopped. At this point I didn't even care, I was just hungry. We ordered pizza and watched Colbert. Around 10:30 I decided I would go take a bath as that was always a good way to relax myself before bed. By eleven the contractions had returned. I decided we better time them this time (we gave up a week before as it had all lead to nothing). Four minutes apart. Then by midnight they were strong and coming every two minutes. I continued breathing and added warm water to the tub. Somewhere around 12:30 they went from the contractions I was used to to something that would practically take my breath away. And then in what seemed like a split second it started to feel as if someone would insert a lead rod of pain from the top of my head down to my toes. My body felt locked in a prison of pain for what would feel like an eternity every two minutes. Eventually my mind would go dark every time a contraction hit. I started to get concerned when my noise level began to escalate since we were in a hotel and told husby to get me out of there. My moans had turned to legitimate screams at that point. But we were able to time it well so I never subjected the hotel patrons to that...
At this point I have to say that I'm not sure if I was blacking out or what but my memory becomes very spotty so a lot of what I'm recollecting was told to me by papa bear after the fact.
One thing I remember very well is that I was timing the contractions and I remember that right as we arrived at the emergency entrance of the hospital the clock on the dashboard said 1:20. Due to a lot of incompetence they didn't get us to labor and delivery until 1:40. I remember requesting to use the bathroom and taking my pants off only to discover that they were drenched with blood. They gave me a gown to put on. I remember it being on but I don't remember who put it on me. I remember getting on the bed and wrapping my entire body around the arm handle (husby told me they were legitimately concerned I would break the bed). I remember having the monitors and an IV strapped to me and then husby tells me they had to remove them all due to my "thrashing." I also ripped off the gown at some point because I got hot. This all seems like it happened in a matter of five minutes to me. Then I told them I felt like pushing. Papa bear told me that it was at that point that the whole room went into a frenzy since our midwife had not even arrived yet. Some point shortly after my declaration she ran in and one of the nurses threw her scrubs on her. Five minutes later V's head would begin to make an appearance. I was told to slow down but I distinctly remember how I could think of nothing but "getting my baby out," no matter what I was told I had one mission on my mind and I wasn't going to be stopped. The fact that the whole ordeal ended up taking three hours is testament of the fact that this little girl wanted out bad.
I need to interject here and say that it's sort of scary to me how quickly everything happened. I don't even remember a single person's face in that room. In fact I don't even remember if papa bear was there. My memory only clearly returns to me at this moment... At 2:36 to be exact.
I hear a commotion and then I feel my baby's warm wet body on my abdomen. I glance down between her legs and my heart stops as I realize that this baby is actually our daughter. It is the most amazing feeling to know that after nine months of speculating. I pull her up to my chest and pull up my shirt. I ask for permission to feed her as I had read for months before that the best time to start breastfeeding is immediately. She takes to my breast eagerly. I give papa bear a kiss. I hear my midwife tell me I tore quite a bit. I don't even care. She's here. It's over. She's mine.

Finally the hush dies down and it's just the three of us. We just sit there and take it all in. Take her in. Her tiny little feet and hands, her puffy eyes and her sweet little button nose. I tell her how we're going to be best friends, how we'll do everything together and how I'll love her more than she will ever know.

For a while I belonged to the "celebrate your love every day" camp. In my mind I would cringe at "Valentine's day dinner," red roses and those cheesy cards (I suppose that makes me a horrid person) and would give the side eye to those who would actually book those Valentine's day getaways. That was all before I had a baby. It was during the time in my life when I could go to the bathroom whenever I wanted, when my dog wouldn't whine for half an hour in the morning to go out while I breastfed my baby and when I could spend two hours cooking dinner. Those days are long gone. Now all our meals come out of a crock pot, Belle has procured some more patience and bathroom breaks are a luxury. Translation? Valentine's day is like my favorite holiday ever!! Bring on the flowers, chocolates and cards!!  All last week we were squirreling away little gifts for each other in anticipation of the weekend.* My parents graciously offered to stay at our house with V while we went away for a night. Like Jessie Spano I was equally excited and scared. After all I've never been away from my baby for longer than four hours since she was born. But on Saturday morning I popped the last bag of milk in the freezer (if I never have to pump again it will be too soon...) and we drove off into the sunset... Well, specifically Winchester but you'll find that even Winchester is surprisingly romantic!  We had dinner that didn't involve rocking the stroller, a late breakfast in bed and a lot of time spent watching videos of our baby and missing her like crazy. All in all it was perfect and just what we needed. It was just the right amount of time to make us feel like a couple again and reconnect.  We returned home to a smiling babe and my mum's homemade chicken noodle soup. So suffice to say I've changed my mind on Valentine's day - I love it!!
*Full disclosure - we sadly still didn't find the time to write our cards. So it seems we'll be exchanging those some time in March... if we're lucky... Oy!
P.S. I mentioned this on my twitter last week but I feel I should reiterate that I am not sponsored by Hello Apparel. I just genuinely adore their clothes. And right now most of my outfits consist of sweatshirts and leggings anyway. Perhaps one day I'll wear real pants again...