B Cups, Please

A spring storm is blowing in from the west. It ruffles the leaves of a large palm tree outside the door in such a way that it seems to say “Shhhhh…” incessantly. Speaking of “Shhhhh,” that’s exactly what I wanted to tell the sales lady at Victoria’s Secret yesterday when she told me I was an “A” cup. Actually, what I really wanted to say was “Take that tape measure and all of your overpriced bras and dental floss for underwear and shove them up your pahtootie!”

Thankfully, VS is all about vanity sizing with tons of padding and after much trying on and tugging and stuffing, I managed to walk out of there with 3 “B” cup size bras, just like the old days. There was no way in hell they could sell me that other smaller size and, honestly, I really couldn’t wear it anyway. The cups are the size of eyeglass lenses and since breastfeeding W for like 16 months in a row everything is all mushy and pokey-outie and so I pointed this out to the sales lady (I said, “Hey, my girls are poking out the sides here.” She said, “They’re supposed to do that. Nobody sees that.” And I said, “Well, my husband will and I will and this isn’t going to work so bring me the bigger cup size, damn you!”). So for way more money than padded foam could possibly be worth, the Hubs bought me 3 new bras and a lovely little nightie. Thank you Hubs! Oh, and it will be like 168 more miles on the AMEX card, just so you know.

Here's one from the camera phone.

I Am Doll Parts

My nose looks like cleaved tenderloin from the constant Kleenex wiping. Yet another daycare or playground bug W has managed to share with the family. I woke up this morning feeling like my head was stuffed inside a giant sock. While I was gone over the weekend, he shared a little something with the Hubs, too. Instead of returning to a duo as excited to see me as a pair of Lab pups, I got the nipping of the shins from W while the Hubs just looked at me forlornly and with a little blame, I think. I know it’s harder for him to spend large chunks of time with the kiddo than it is for me. He’d rather be playing chess online, watching Mad Money or working a crossword puzzle in peace. Plus he’s a hypochondriac so every sniffle and cough is taken very seriously. Someone please call Dr. Quinn.

I’m wearing this really cute summery top today, sleeveless and all, that I got at Old Navy. Flip flops, too. I like to wear things like this when I know the weather is going to be bad (major thunderstorms on the radar for today). It’s my sort of “eff you, Mother Nature, I play by my own rules” or something like that. The tank top would look awesome on me if I had any boobs. They have completely vacated the premesis and I am as flat as a pancake. Completely disheartening, especially since I found my E cup nursing bras in a box of pregger clothes I lent to a friend yesterday. Her hooters are bigger now than they were AFTER she had her first child and we pointed and made sweeping hand gestures around her giant ta-tas in the front yard for all the neighbors to see. She suffers the same consequence as me after nursing and also ends up with nothing but a breastbone. We often talk about getting a tandem boob job in L.A. and then enjoying recovery on the beach with nothing but dental floss covering our new girls. Should we wear waxed or unwaxed floss?

Catch 22

It’s been a week and a half since the breastfeeding tour of duty ended but it hasn’t gone without its repercussions. Instead of W making his “time to nurse” throat clearing sounds to cue me in advance, he just blatantly reaches down my shirt like it’s a bag of candy, grabs a hold of flesh and squeezes it like the bulb the RN uses to take my blood pressure. His eyes sort of glaze over as if he’s just come off of a huge bong hit and he goes limp with the satisfaction of connection. Sometimes just looking at my mini rack as I dress in the morning is enough to make him go weak in the knees. He yearns silently, wistfully. I can see it in his eyes.

The absence of breastfeeding in the morning has had its mixed blessings. Now most mornings I either have to wake W up or I find him playing quietly in his crib without a trace of urgency on his face. The fact that I need to sometimes wake him means that I’m not getting up any earlier either which translates in to not enough time to get to the gym and out again. Yeah, so I guess I could start setting my alarm and getting my a.m. act together but dammit, I’ve been waking up at the ass crack of dawn for what seems like forever and the last thing I want to do is be jolted awake by anything other than my kiddo. Just doesn’t seem fair but neither is the hit you take on the bod after growing a person in your person.

In other news...W is finally sprouting a few more teeth which is another reason to be grateful that the boob trough is permanently closed for business. Interestingly enough though, his new teeth are all on one side of his mouth and it's looking pretty weird, folks.

Bitty

We’re back to the CSS (cough, snot, sneeze) circle of unhealthiness in the Fantasy household. After pumping the baby with sweet pink antibiotic juice we were illness free for about a week and a half but I guess the force field of germ killer has worn off. Such a bummer. The kid wakes up looking like he’s been rooting around in rubber cement all night. He cries out in his attempts to keep breathing until ‘morn.

I have been trying to wean him but my efforts have been thwarted. A nighttime rescue from the crib means a boob cocktail for Shorty. With his eyes closed in the dark living room, he yanks out his pacifier with the POP! sound of a champagne cork unleashed. He hurls it into the night and positions himself expectantly, his mouth shaped like an “O”. It’s amusing but I’m wondering where it will end. Sure, I could get the Hubs to help out by having him be the recipient of the child-in-need but he’s kept nighttime working hours since the Rolling Stones show and that was like 3 weeks ago. My biggest fear is that we end up being something like this…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4XGonnqcU-U

Ding-A-Ling

As the weeks of childrearing blow by like brittle autumn leaves, I make mental notes of W’s progress from baby to toddler the hours I am with him and as he heads into his fifteenth month of life, W has discovered a few things. An important discovery, next to the boob on the day he was born, occurred in the bathtub just last week. He was playing with his bathtub drums and dropped a drumstick between his legs. As he patted around with his hand to locate it, his five digits found his pecker, the Holy Grail to many a man. W gave it a tug and paused to look at me. I grinned back at him not sure what to do. I sorta felt like zoologist Marlin Perkins watching a lion cub taste a fresh kill for the first time. I didn’t move and waited to see what happened next. I then remembered what my parents taught me about sex which wasn’t much, if anything at all. I vaguely recall them addressing me in the living room by the gas fireplace and fake ivy and saying something about something daddy gave to mommy and it swam somewhere and then she was pregnant. The whole time I just wanted to be outside playing. Like most kids in my neighborhood, we gained full knowledge of sex in the S book of the encyclopedia collection but our own mental interpretations were a little warped. I remember giggling on the floor by the bookshelf in 5th grade as a small group of us, boys and girls, read the section aloud. All details became perfectly clear, however, when a copy of The Joy Of Sex was discovered at a friend’s house. Hello pictorals! I remember a bunch of “Ewwwwws” and “What is that?” being screeched and the book being tossed around like a bag of flaming poop. I think that whole experience stunted my sexual growth for quite a while. I couldn’t wait to get out of there and race off on my bicycle with the faux denim banana seat.

So W has discovered his schmeckel and it’s now a constant bath time plaything. It makes for awkward moments as he sits there in silence and diddles. Maybe its time for the Hubs to take over.

Early Birdie

Daylight savings time has officially screwed our household. W woke up BEFORE five a.m. this morning and instead of immediately heading downstairs to his bedroom door to scoop him up, I paused for a moment and considered jumping off of the balcony (Dear brother, please don’t call me and ask me if I’m depressed. I’m not. I’m just tired.). To my surprise, however, the Hubs took matters in to his own hands and rescued baby. They hung out until the little rooster dozed off again about an hour and a half later. This never would have happened if I was up with him because he gets too distracted by boobs and the morning routine and boobs. I got to sleep until 8 a.m. which almost as good as getting diamond earrings for Christmas (insert subtle hint to the Hubs here).

Our time together this morning was short and sweet. As we were saying our good-byes, W decided to smack me in the face a few times with his tiny hand and as I turned to give him the business, he had a huge, happy grin on his face which immediately diffused the situation and was quickly replaced with giant, cheek puckering kissy sounds that he makes every time the Hubs and I smooch. He loves getting in on the act. Little fish face.

And so, we go. And it’s date night tonight. More tomorrow.

Hump Day

One nice thing about the husband going out of town is that I can do things I would never do with him around. For example, I haven't made the bed since he left. It has remained a nest of pillows with a hole carved out for my perpetual fetal position and my basketball belly. I have left dishes in the sink for days. Many of them I didn't know existed because they were buried in the very back of the cabinet. I have also been able to turn the TV on in the morning when I wake up and listen to the chatter of talking heads as I spend the time necessary to dig myself out of my nest. This morning, I turned the channel to Regis & Kelly, a show I have never been fond of but I usually get sucked in to and it's all Kelly's fault. Regis is rather predictable in his on screen banter but Kelly shoots from the hip, is reckless, slightly daring, and sometimes, very amusing. Today, she talked about the padded bra she was wearing under her skimpy pink tank top. I, too, am normally endowed with your average B-cup (but thanks to the wonders of growing a person in a person, you get a nice set of ta-tas for a quite a while...right now I'm shooting for a D-cup!) and was completely riveted by her confession of what her boobs looked like post nursing 3 children. As she described them, I kept thinking of yams in socks, sand in socks, soggy socks, things of this nature hanging from her tiny chest...AND I WAS HORRIFIED! So what's a girl to do to avoid this fate? Any suggestions, my friendly internet voyeurs? Further research must be done! My husband is a boob man (sorry, honey, but we both know it's true) so this is of grave concern to me. Jessica Alba, some actress that has come out of nowhere and is suddenly everywhere was a guest on the show. Among many covers of magazines her lovely figure has graced this month, one of them is Rolling Stone. It is impossible to overlook her lovely youthful cleavage but dammit if she didn't reassure Kelly that she was wearing shoulder pads in her bra to prop them up! *GASP!* And she's in her early twenties! I almost started clapping with glee! But then I realized what time it was and needed to get my buns, belly, and boobs out of bed and get ready for work.