If this isn’t the most disturbing pre-school project on file, I’d hate to see the winner…
This is what I found in At-man’s cubby the morning after the Dentist visited the class during “neighborhood helpers week”.
I have spent the night puttering around on my laptop trying really, really hard not to look at the Carolina/Duke game because it is simply more stress than even I, a mother, can deal with. There is now only a minute and 24 seconds left and I need a shot. Now there are 23 seconds left and I need several. PLEASE BEAT DUKE!!!! I”M BEGGING YOU!!! Te’ll em’ Roy. Tell em’ not to fug up! 17.4 seconds left. No time outs. JUST HOLD THE BALL! 1.1 SECONDS, WE DID IT!!! It’s times like this when I sort of wish I was still 21, an age where it is still socially respectable to react to your team winning by running drunk into the middle of the road to light shit on fire. I’ll be breaking out the Carolina shirts for the boys tomorrow. All the parents at school usually dress their kids in their team finnery the Monday after a win ( just to rub it in) so I’ll have to remember it’s Carolina blue all around then too. Ever since I became a mother I have turned into an even bigger dork than before in that when I watch Carolina win I get all misty thinking about how proud their moms must be. I can’t wait till the boys are big enough to watch the games with us. This post has no flow, but I don’t care. WE WON! and I’m pretty psyched!
I know some people who read this blog actually know me, so let me apologize up front for divulging too much personal information in this post. That said, here it goes.
When I was about 13 years old, a terrible thing happened. My breasts literally exploded off of my chest. I spent the better part of high school weighing 115lbs, sporting 36D boobs. I was the girl everybody assumed was sleeping around, simply because I looked like a porn star. The truth was I was a horribly insecure girl who dreamed of the day I could find the right plastic surgeon to correct what I saw as my freakish deformity.
As the years went on I grew into my boobs, but as I gained weight so did they. During my first pregnancy I was actually to the point where I met my first F cup. Yes, you read that right, an F. You may wonder what it’s like living with 2 honey dews hanging off your chest; I can only express it as horribly uncomfortable. I have always thought of myself as more diva than all out sex kitten, longing to look great in tiny BCBG tops, not spending my career building years doing a national tour of “The Doll House” establishments.
Fast forward to last Saturday. My bras were looking a bit on the baggy side. I had read an article about how they lose elasticity over time so I was thinking they were about due to be traded in. I enlisted D to spend a little weekend time at the mall so he could amuse the boys while I tried on some new undergarments. A very helpful sales girl approached to see if I needed any help and for the first time in as long as I can remember I said yes. She asked me what size I needed and when I told her she looked me up and down and said “That’s not right, let me measure you.” Well, outside of pregnancy I’ve worn the same size my entire life. I doubted anything could surprise me, until she said the words that made me the happy girl I am to this day. “34 C.” “REALLY!” “NO WAY!” She then proceeded to select me a choice of the more popular tiny, little bras and sent me off to the dressing room. They looked like training bras but I thought I’d humor her and give them a try. They all fit, and not in a way that would render me looking like I had the quadra-boob thing happening. They genuinely fit! I can move around and pick up my kids without having to readjust time and time again.
Now I know there are many women who would be more than happy to take what I lost. I have no sympathy for you, my lesser chest blessed friends. I have dents in my shoulders; have endured back aches, run through soreness…you name it. From the first time I saw 16 candles and heard Farmer Ted describe Samantha as a girl with “smallish tits.” I have longed to be more on the smallish side myself. All of the miles I’ve logged have finally paid off.
It never ceases to amaze me how the little accomplishments can sometimes stand above more monumental things. Obviously looking into my boys smiling faces rates at the very top of my list of things that warm my heart, but looking at my tiny new bras is not too far behind.
