Pregnant in Flats

I’m going to pull the curtain on two little guilty pleasures about myself.
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Number one is that I heart Thursdays because that’s the day when my US Weekly rolls up in our mailbox.  Yes, I admit to having a subscription.  And when late breaking Charlie Sheennews causes printing delays, and I don’t get my copy until Saturday, I feel a little testy.

Number two is that while my husband enjoys television that lulls him to sleep and looks familiar to me as I’m pretty sure it’s a documentary a substitute history teacher made us watch during my senior year in high school, I prefer Bravo.  Yes, I said it.  Judge if you must.  If I could only watch one network for the rest of my days, it would be Bravo.  I admit to being a big fan of the ENTIRE Real Housewives franchise, I can’t get enough of Bethenny, and I even like that Millionaire Matchmaker lady.  But tonight the television stars aligned when I stumbled upon Pregnant in Heels.

I am five and a half months pregnant.  But not pregnant in heels, pregnant in flats.  Let’s get real.  I have a two year old, and pregnant people don’t always have the best balance.  It’s practically a safety issue.  But after watching tonight, I feel like I need to at least make an effort and dig out some of my wedges.  While we are very excited about this new baby, since he has inhabited my body, we have moved, Vanilla Ice has NOT come to help me fix my yard, I’m chasing my daughter who doesn’t seem to care whether or not there is a bump in the way as long as I’m holding her, and I’ve been working a lot.  Bottom line, I have no idea where my What to Expect book is and I’m spending a lot less time on BabyCenter.

The premise of this show is that Rosie Pope is a “maternity concierge” to million dollar mamas to be in New York City.  Which, as I’m looking at this pile of dishes on the counter, is SUPER relatable.  One of the expecting mamas who had come to Rosie for help wanted to create a nursery for her baby but hated the look of baby paraphernalia.  She wasn’t interested in anything bright, squeaky or “baby looking.”

Our garage is filled with primary colored baby items that take about 18 DD batteries each.

The second mama to be wanted advice on naming her baby.  Ultimately she needed a “think tank” meeting, a focus group and a formal dinner party discussion with friends to get down to her final baby name, which comically had been shunned by all questioned parties.  One name on the table was Tucker, which one friend said really reminded her of Tuck’s Medicated Pads.

My husband and I picked our daughter’s name out ahead of time, but the first person we actually revealed it to was the anesthethiologist during my epidural.  If our name choice reminded someone of a hemorrhoid medicated pad, I didn’t want to hear about it before she was born.

Previews for next week show a woman who wants her hair and make-up done in the delivery room.

I looked like I had been hit by a truck in the delivery room and have a personal goal of only looking like I was hit by a sedan after I have my son this summer.

I sat on that couch, and I laughed my pregnant little head off.  Partly because these are first time moms, and are about to get a big surprise, like the MAC counter might not have enough make-up on it to make you look good in the delivery room.  In the check-ins after the babies had been born, the squeaky sound, primary color hating mom had bought out all the baby toys at Toys R Us and filled her trendy loft with them.  The “think tank” name couple loved their name choice because it was the one that worked for them, no matter what the focus group or their friends thought.  In other words, this show has the best of both reality show worlds.  Mouth hanging open at the beginning, warm fuzzies at the end.  I’m setting up a season pass.

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"Pregnant in Heels: Concierge Rosie, courtesy BravoTV

Pregnant in Flats

The premise of this show is that Rosie Pope is a “maternity concierge” to million dollar mamas to be in New York City. Which, as I’m looking at this pile of dishes on the counter, is SUPER relatable.