Imagine my surprise, when I got ready to leave the hospital after my third child, aka Glamour Rays (GR), was born, and not being able to get my own bra on, was told by the lactation nurse, who had just measured me that I was now a bra size H. Hunh? Come again? “Pardon me,” I say, “I don’t think I heard you correctly. Did you say, H???!!!!” (They actually come in bigger sizes than that. Who knew?) The lactation nurse smiled and promptly took my $70 for said garment, which looked like a double-barrelled catapult, while I cussed my husband for knocking me up again.
My kids often ask me why I wear my pants so high. I have to explain that it’s not that my pants are high, it’s that my boobs, which are tucked in my socks, give the illusion that my pants are at my arm pits. On occasion, I have let out a little yelp after one of them has managed to get caught in my blackberry holster.
I remind my children that it is entirely their fault that mommy’s girls are pointing due south, leaving out the part about failing the pencil test way back in fourth grade. I could probably pass the pencil test now, but that would require some jerry-rigging and a whole lot of duct tape. Besides, then where would I keep my cordless phone while putzing around the house?
At one point, I did consider a boob job after an unfortunate run-in with our trashcan. In full mommy mode, rushing around doing twelve things at once, I was trying to tidy my truck a bit so that a new layer of kid crud would have some place to play on our next outing. With my hands full, I figured I’d use one elbow to quickly lift the trashcan lid, and drop in the collected muck and mire. I flicked the lid up and got the trash in, but apparently didn’t clear the can fast enough before the lid came crashing down, catching my nip in its wake. A wave of pain shot out from my nip and radiated through my entire body. Benjamin Franklin couldn’t generate power like that. My yard went black for a minute and stars began circling overhead, as I tried to process what had just occurred. Did I REALLY just slam my boob in the trashcan lid????? No, I couldn’t have. But when I tried to step back from the trashcan, and felt the pinch, the truth was there in all its glory. Ivy League educated, former college athlete, mom extraordinaire, stopped dead in my tracks by a big blue boob eater.
I extricated myself from the can, and thought I should call the trash company because there should really be some notation in the trashcan-operating manual about this potential hazard to women. When I explained my remarkable feat to my husband, who burst out laughing, I thought better of making that call because really, how do you explain to some stranger that you managed catch your boob in the trashcan lid and be taken seriously. So I changed the family chore chart instead.
My son takes the trash out now……stupid can.
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