Sentimental Pants

This post is going to have very little to do with X, or parenting, or really life with a baby. Although there is a crap load to talk about there. See, Mike is putting X to bed, and it doesn't happen very often. Normally I put X to bed, which is sort of a vicious cycle because X is used to me putting him to bed, so it is easier, so I keep doing it. You see the catch 22. And I could use this time to talk about searching for stage 2 shoes in a giant size 6.5 wide, or about how my barely 10 month old RUNS or about how he loves edamame and growling and Ella. And socks, don't forget about the socks. But no, this not-baby-update is about....wait for it.....pajamas. Not just any pajamas. Pajamas I have owned and never worn since 2005. That is seven years, two marriages, a divorce, 6 addresses. I LOVE THESE PAJAMAS.

So let's go back to 2005. I was getting ready to leave Barcelona. I loved Barcelona. I was homesick, but a real part of me never wanted to leave. Granted, some of that was what I knew was a disaster back home, and part of it was a boy, but most of it was the city. The weeks prior to my departure date I would make myself stand in mundane places and memorize every detail, every sound, every smell. I stood outside the bread shop on the corner of the main road by my apartment and looked at the green construction fence behind a row of manicured hedges, the silver table and chairs set out under umbrellas as men read papers while their children ate pan y chocolate before school. I stood on the pier side of the metro station and listened to the seagulls, saw the repetition in the phone booths, smelled the Mediterranean and fresh seafood restaurants. I stood at the fountain by the metro stop at Passieg de Gracia and memorize the flow of water, the small roundabout, Plaza de Catalunya just beyond. And I knew I would miss it. On one of my melancholy walks after a cafe con leche at Bar Estudiantil I wondered past an upscale lingerie shop, just beyond VIPS. In the window was a beautiful pair of lightly striped coral and pink pajama bottoms. They had drawstring cuffs along their capri bottoms and dainty buttons. They were beautiful, and expensive, and frivolous. I lived frugally in Spain to say the least. I bought almost nothing besides necessities. But I was leaving, and I had a little extra cash from my 11 Euro per day allotment. So I bought them. Size large, because by Spanish standards I have always been a beast. And I brought them home. And they were too small. Across the hips and thighs mostly. I kept them, and kept them, and kept them. And then my life changed. I had X. My hips and ribcage widened and I gained a ridiculous amount of weight. So, my mom gave me some sweatpants and pajamas to wear after X was born, and I gave her my beautiful pants. I gave up, someone should enjoy them. Last week she returned them. I weigh less now than I have ever weighed in my life. I am not the skinniest I have ever been, but miraculously my hips are more narrow, my thighs have thinned out, I am more proportionate. And tonight, for the first time ever, I put them on. And they are beautiful.

I never would have thought having a baby and eating whatever I wanted could make me 20 pounds lighter than the day I conceived him.

I returned to Barcelona with Mike two summers ago. I stood in some of the same places. Barceloneta was the same, except for some of the shops and construction. A huge market exists there now, and I couldn't find my donor kebab place. The rest of Barcelona is different. Almost completely. The economic crisis, the admittance into the EU, immigration policy and "clean up" efforts have changed the city, maybe for the better, I am not sure. But I am glad I took the time to etch into memory the city I lived in, cherished and found myself. And I'm glad I bought those pants.