Winter is a difficult time for so many. The dark mornings, the darker afternoons, the English drizzle all seem to be actively plotting against us. For me, there are compounding factors in my lethargy. There is absolutely nothing that drains my creative energy, that so efficiently saps my sense of humor and spirit, than the first trimester of pregnancy. And like clockwork, now that I am approaching fourteen weeks I feel that I can string a few words together to make a coherent sentence!
Yeah, I kind of buried the lede there. We are preparing to launch number three, our third and final I REALLY MEAN IT, GUYS baby, in late August. Between the mental drain of winter, the demands of homeschooling Maggie, and keeping an eye (and occasionally a loving thumb) on dear Moira, I have had nothing to give creatively. It’s a problem for me, because when I don’t write I have terrible nagging dreams about wasted potential. Apparently it’s enough to know that I occasionally make my mom laugh and that sometimes I make people think when I write here.
That said, I don’t have enough stamina for any hot, emotionally laden topics. My torpor has not lifted enough to court controversy or stimulate flowing tear ducts. No, right now I’m pretty much just looking at makeup, and considering the varied ways I could paint my face.
The last time I bothered to buy anything for my face was in 2011, when I was pregnant with Moira. One senses a theme: in order to keep strangers from rubbing my belly like a good-luck troll (why? why do people do that?!), I try to get people to look elsewhere. Sadly, between the insomnia and familial tendencies toward sensitive, rashy red skin, eye baggage, and errant hairs, some maintenance needs to be done. Chinny is easy–one pluck and that little hair is gone. Chinny is probably my longest-lasting relationship, and I have no doubt we will grow old together as one.
Anyway, I walked into L’Occitane and said “I’m seven months pregnant and I have a toddler and I look it. HALP.” She fixed me right up with some overpriced placebo that made me feel better but had no discernible effect, and then I bought some lipliner and pronounced myself Peachy The Overly-Big-Eyed Clown.
Right now, I’ve got Sephora open in another window and I’m trying to figure out the wild world of contouring. Like most other complicated vanity-painting, I’m pretty sure we can thank a Kardashian for this, and also pretty sure that if I tried to contour my face I would look like a molting pigeon. That doesn’t mean I won’t try, and then we can have Peachy The Clown Part Deux: The Peachening.
In the meantime, I have a nice smattering of broken blood vessels and rashy bumps on my face. This could either be the onset of rosacea (bane of the Swedish side of the family) or a combination of hormones and breaking blood vessels as the result of forceful vomiting. (Future mothers-to-be: you can’t say you weren’t warned.) I’ve been branching out into the new world of redness-reducing primer, coating myself in what looks like green swamp slime and which turns into a “universal color” (uh. I guess? If you’re white? not so “universal,” there, L’Oreal) as it sets.
At a playdate, a concerned friend said “You look like you’re feeling better! Your color is back!” So, I guess turning me from looking ultra-pale/polka dotted red into a neutral universal bland is the same as returning color, and the same as faked health. In reality it was one of the worst days of my first trimester, but darned if I didn’t have even pores.
So that’s what’s going on here. Gestating and face-painting. When I update again in two months I’ll let you know which face-moltening contour equipment I went with.