Swimsuit dilemma

Ah, swimsuit season.  How I loathe thee.

I have shed some weight lately.  Not as much as I had hoped to by the start of summer, but 20 pounds is no small feat, either.  I'll keep trying.

Meanwhile, I need a new swimsuit.

I was wearing a 16/18.  Not anymore!  That's the good news.

I've been swimsuit shopping twice in the last week.  No more plus sizes for me!  Now, I'm trying on 12s (and even some 10s!).  This is a Big Deal.

Except...

Suddenly I realize that I will never be able to buy a swimsuit in a size 10 or 12.

It appears that the swimsuit manufacturers think that only fat girls need bust support.

"Oh, we have bra sizes.  We go up to DD," says the sales girl proudly.

Well isn't that fantastic.  I was a DD in college before pregnancy and breastfeeding took their toll on the girls.  We need to travel a little further along the alphabet to get to where I need to be.

Thankfully, there are some beautifully made bras out there that help to mould your poor, sad, tired girls back into shape.

Seriously, ladies... Most of you are wearing the wrong size bra.  I promise.  A quality bra that fits correctly will do wonders for your figure and your self esteem.  Stay away from department stores.  They are not your friend.

But I digress...

Unfortunately, the same does not hold true for swimsuits.

Bust support is non-existent, even with the suits that proclaim their supportive attributes.

The girls end up either squished flat, oozing out the sides, pouring out the top in a grotesque parody of a décolletage, or just totally distorting the intended shape of the swimsuit.

It's a nightmare.

I found one (ONE!) that would work for me.  It was a miracle.  It was also $135 dollars.  Just for the top.

Back to the drawing board...

I decided to try a local plus size store, thinking I'd have better luck.  They laughed me out of the store.

Girl, what you think gonna fit you in this store?  What are you, a size 8?
Why no, but thank you, you just made my day.
Try Old Navy, they carry your size.

No one seems to fully understand The Boob Problem.

The husband's advice? Wear a T-shirt.

Why yes, nothing says I'm uncomfortable with my body like a chick hanging out in the pool with a T-shirt on.  Sigh.

Disclaimer: The husband says I make him sound like a jerk in my blog posts.  My answer to that?  Wow, Honey, why does it always have to be about you??  Kidding!  Only kidding.  So, just so we're all clear:  I love my husband.  He's a dear, dear man and a wonderful father. There, are you happy now?   

Growing up

I look into her sleepy grinning face, and her daddy's blue eyes sparkle back at me.  She should be in bed, but for some reason she keeps reappearing at my side.

I am busy; I am always busy, though, and they grow weary of my inattention.

She's so young, but her young body is growing in ways for which she is not ready.  She's going to be an "early bloomer," as they say.  As was her mother.  This is not something her mother is happy to have passed on.

It is also her mother's voice that emerges when she speaks, the flippancy and sarcasm that is a routine part of their daily banter.

She is so much like me.

And yet...

She is so much more than me.  She shines in a way that is unique to her.

I am tired.  Work is done for the day, dinner is cooked and cleaned up, [some of the] chores are done or can wait.  I would like nothing more than to have a few minutes to write something, anything - just write, dammit - but she needs something.  Just me, I think.

She is on an estrogen fueled roller coaster these days.  She is at the mercy of her hormonal surges.  This is a hard place to be, even for more mature girls.  Emotions are raw, unexpected, uncontrollable.  Tears are frequent.

What's wrong with her? The males in our home ask, exasperated.

They make jokes.  In her fragile emotional state she cannot find the humor, only the hurt.

I find myself being her adversary and her emissary simultaneously.  I am battered by the onslaught of her emotions.  I try to fend her off for my own self preservation.  I will point to the doorway and tell her to go out, to leave me, to go spew emotion somewhere else, pleasefortheloveofgod.

But she doesn't know what to do with it.  She doesn't even know why she's so upset most of the time.  She is a mystery to herself.

Then I am intervening on her behalf, begging them to please let her be, to please understand that she's a biologically crazy person right now and she deserves their sympathy, not their ridicule.

Her father is out of his element.  This is not the daughter he knows.  How can he dote on her when there are venom and fangs and claws where once there was only sweetness and light?

He doesn't handle it as well as he could.  His response is defensive, visceral, accusatory.  She's impossible, I'm done.  

I beg, harass, and challenge him to be the dad she needs; we don't always get to be the parent that we want to be.  We have to meet them where they are. 

She needs softness, she needs rationality, she needs forgiveness.  This business of growing up is exhausting.

She needs to hear that she's beautiful.  She needs to hear that this is natural, normal.  Her body is changing, growing, has become a place where she is no longer entirely at home.

Her clothes don't fit the same.  Yes, this too is a source of emotion, tears.  Nothing fits.  Even things that fit last week are snug and awkward this week.

Her best friend makes comments about how they can't share clothes anymore.  They've known each other since infancy, and they've always shared clothes.  Suddenly, she is taller and several sizes larger.  She has hips.  Who does this body belong to?

She tells me she looks different than all her friends at school.  I nod in sympathy.  I remember it well.  I let her know a secret I never really understood; they'll all grow, too.  It will just happen later.  I ask her to talk to me about how she's feeling, because I know it's hard.  I was just like you.  But you're braver than I was.  I know you're going to be okay.  Let's always talk, though, always tell me what you're thinking.  Promise?  She does.    


She stares at my stretch marks in fascination one day while we're lazing around in the pool.  


Wow, they're still there?
Yep.
And you're... ya know.  Those.  I don't like to say the word.  
Boobs?
I don't like that word.   
Well you didn't mind it for the first three years of your life.  That's what you called them when you wanted to nurse, you know.  
I know, don't talk about it!  
Okay... So, what about them?  
Are mine going to be like that?  
Not if you're lucky.  But, genetics say probably yes.  Sorry, chicklette.  


Now she is afraid puberty will bring stretch marks and droopy those.  No, I tell her.  That comes after babies.  You have a while left yet.

Later, she watches me pensively as I climb out of the pool.

What's on your mind?
I just can't believe that's going to happen to me one day.

I just smile, because it's okay.  Because she doesn't know.  She won't understand until she gets there.

She doesn't look forward to all the growing and changing.  I don't blame her.

Tonight, she is clingy.  She needs us to put her to bed.

Why tuck her in? She's 8, her dad wonders aloud.

It wounds her, and she runs away, embarrassed.  Again, he does not understand this foreign land of the prepubescent female.

I understand.  She's growing up too fast.  It's scary.  She needs that connection to the girl, the little one that gets tucked in at night.

I send him in to make amends.  They do their best to come to terms with each other.

This is only the beginning, I tell him.  This is 8.  You're going to love 16... just you wait and see.

The artful dodge

The Girl got home from school today and told me about a Brain Pop video she watched about drugs. 

Her: I learned that if you use illegal drugs you can sometimes see things that aren't there, things that are there like only in your imagination but you think they're real and you get all freaked out. 

Me: I think the word you're looking for is hallucination.  

Her: Yeah, that.  Hallucination.  Has that ever happened to you?  

Ummm... Only if you count that one time in college when I may or may not have smoked something questionable and didn't realize it until the walls started bubbling and peeling.  Does that count? 

Wait, I'm not sure that's an age appropriate answer.  I also can't lie.  It's a rule.  Ummm... 

Me: Me? Has that ever happened to me? So, you're saying you think I use illegal drugs? 

Her: Or anyone you know? 

Me: So now my friends do drugs? 

Her: Well, just anyone...have you seen that happen?  

Me:  No, can't say that I've seen it happen. 

Her.  Oh.  It sounds weird.  

Me: Yeah.  Totally.  Don't do drugs.  

Porn: A Cautionary Tale

Pulling this one from the archives of Yeah, So That Happened...

Maybe you'll be more prepared than I was.

I don't really let my kids touch my stuff.  They're not allowed on my computers.  Not because I don't think they're ready or because I don't think computers are good for kids; just because, well, I don't like it when they touch my stuff.  It's my stuff, dammit.  We have to have boundaries, people!

Not my mom, though; she let's them play.  It's cool, they're monitored and all that.  So, the Boy learned around age 8 how to search the internet and that the internet was a cool place to shop for toys and play games.

Anyway, so one day, I'm in my bedroom on my laptop, and the Girl, then 5, comes in.

Girl: Mama, Cole is shopping for birthday and Christmas presents for me, isn't that so nice??
Me: Hmmm?  
Girl: Cole is on your computer in the office, [Wait, what? Now I'm listening.] and he asked me to go out because he was looking at birthday and Christmas gifts for me.  Isn't that so nice?
Me: Um, since it's June, and your birthday is in October and Christmas is in December... Yes, that sounds very... nice.

And not at all true.  He's not supposed to be in my office, much less on my computer.  Alone.

Rather than storm in there, I opt for stealth mode.  I use remote access to log in to my desktop.

I see a Google screen.  He begins typing in a search box.

Holy. Shitballs. 

I quickly backspace the words out of the search box.  He starts to type again, and again I backspace.  

I move the mouse around in circles to let him know he's not controlling things anymore.  

Then, I type in the search box: 

Nothing else happens.  The mouse is still, and the words don't get erased.  

Well fuck.  Now what??  I don't want to have this conversation with him.  I really don't want to.  

As I sit there trying to figure out my next move, he comes into the bedroom, a stunned look on his face.  I'm thinking he knows he's caught red-handed, and he's come to confess.

Boy: Mom? 

Me: Yeah...?

Boy: There's a ghost in the office.  

Me: What? 

Boy: I was in there, I just wanted to look something up on your computer real quick, and I started to type and the words just disappeared!  And then I tried to type again and they disappeared again!  And then the mouse arrow started going around in circles, and then someone typed that they were watching me... 

Me: Really.  Hmm.  Well, that's scary.  Better not go in there anymore.  Wow.  

As it turns out, he has no idea it was me.  He doesn't know about things like remote access. He's totally spooked now. 

Mom's geek skills, for the win, man...

Okay, that's where the funny ends, really.  The rest of the story sucks, especially if you have or have had an 8 year old and you know how sweet and innocent and naive they're supposed to be.

I searched the history later.  I was up until after 3 am, looking at everything he had been looking at.  The history started out looking for games to play, and he visited some games sites.  Then, I guess he was being brotherly, because he entered the search term "girl games."  He was trying to find something for his sister to play.  You can imagine what he found instead.  Then, he got to clicking through other links, and things went from bad to worse fast.  I was sick to my stomach.  We had to have the sex talk waaaaaaay too soon, and you can't unring that bell.  

The moral of the story: Install parental controls before you think you need them!  And then snoop on your kids unashamedly.  They'll thank you later.  

In which I meet the Bloggess

Jenny Lawson had a local book signing. I went with some friends. It was awesome. That is all.  

She is Grace

We had to put down our 13 year old Golden Retriever today.  She was very old, she had some tumor issues, she was losing weight fast, she was in pain... It was just time.

The kids knew it might be coming; we've talked about it frankly for a few months now.  We let them know today that we were taking her to the vet, we took pictures of them with her, and we told them we'd come get them to say goodbye if we needed to.

My husband wondered why they didn't seem very upset or emotional about it, but I knew they were just in denial that it was happening.  They didn't want it to be real, so they assumed she would be fine.  Hell, I'd been doing the same thing for a while.

After the decision was made and we got them to the vet, we let them know what was going to happen.  Even after all the talk, they both broke down at the reality of it.  On one level, it didn't come as a surprise, but on another they were very unprepared for the grief.  It him them like a tidal wive.  They both started sobbing.

I started to feel that we had made the wrong decision, that we should have waited, taken her home, talked about it more, let them get used to the idea... But we had already started the process.  Belle was laying on a table with an IV inserted waiting for us to tell her goodbye.

We did, and it was gut wrenching.  They were so upset.  I was sad for the loss of Belle, but their pain was really what was hurting me the most.  Are we doing the right thing?  Should they see this?  They wanted to be there.  They asked to stay with her.

It happened so fast.  It felt like it was happening too fast.  I almost told him to stop, wait!  But I didn't want to waver; I didn't want them to be angry with me later.  If I showed doubt, maybe they would start to question our decision.  I held my tongue, and I stood with them and we held her while she passed.  And just like that, it was over.  She was at peace.

Later, we were taking our little dog for a walk and enjoying the incongruously beautiful weather, and Grace asked me which way I wanted to go, which route I wanted to take.  I told her she could decide, because I wasn't up for any more decisions today.

She said, Well, you made the right decision today. We did the right thing.  

I said, Really? You think so? I hope so.

She said, Yes, Belle is with God now, and God will take care of her.  

And there it was, the grace that is my Grace.  Dear Lord, I love this child.

Lost and found

Girl:  Mom, have you ever lost one of us?
Me:   Yeah, that one time.  I'm sure you remember.
Girl:  You mean at Opening Day for baseball?
Me:   Okay, so just the 2 times, then.
Girl:  Oh, yeah, when the police came.

Ah, toddler memories.  I thought I'd pull this one from the archives of Yeah, So That Happened, and share it.  

One day, a friend was visiting.  The Boy child was 5, the Girl was 2, and my friend had a 2-year-old son, also. She and I were chatting as she was getting ready to leave.  I unlocked the front door, but then we got sidetracked with talking.  We stood there a while, then we made our way back into the kitchen for something.  We headed back to the front door, and she called for her son.  We heard no answer, and no pitter-patter of little feet.  Come to think of it, things had been awfully quiet.

Where were the toddlers?  We called their names, and they didn’t answer.  We looked in all the rooms - no joy.  We asked the Boy, who was in his room, if he’d seen them, and he just shrugged.

 

I checked the back yard.  We had a hot tub, and it was covered.  Feeling serious heart-in-my-throat dread, I lifted the cover of the hot tub, willing it to be empty.  Mercifully, it was.

We went out front, where there were some older neighborhood kids playing nearby.  We asked, Did you see two little kids come outside from here? 

Yeah, I think so. 

Where did they go?

I think they went that way. 

They pointed down the block vaguely.  There were no toddlers in sight. 

Shit.  Panic began to set in.  Did I mention that the friend was 8 months pregnant?  So, her hormones – combined with her already slightly high-strung personality – took over, and she pretty much freaked the hell out.  She told me to stay at the house in case they came back, and she took off in the direction indicated by the neighbor kids.  Took off – all 4’11” of her, with her 8 months pregnant bulk, took off running around the block, calling their names.

She didn’t find them.  I panic more subtly, so I was coming unglued, only just on the inside.  I called 911.  We’ve got 2 missing toddlers.  Neighbor kids said they saw them come out of the house and go down the street.  We can’t find them.  Please come. 

Four cop cars showed up.  They dispersed and started combing the neighborhood while a couple of them stayed at the house with us.  I thought my friend was going to go into labor.  The officers tried to calm her down and ask questions.  One of them started searching the house.  He was opening kitchen cabinets and closets, pulling out their contents… I managed to be mortified by the state of my house while my daughter was missing.  The mind is funny like that. 

While they searched the rest of the house, I went to our master bedroom.  I’d already checked the room and the bathroom, but we have a large walk-in closet in the bathroom.  I decided to double check. 
I opened the door, turned on the light, swept the contents with a quick once-over, and saw nothing that remotely looked like a toddler.  I was about to shut the door, and -

A whisper.  And then a giggle. 

THEY WERE HIDING IN THE DAMN CLOSET THE. WHOLE. TIME. 

Oh, God.  I tried to hide my mortification as I marched them out so that I could tell the nice officers that they could stop turning my house upside down. 

Yes, sir, we should’ve checked the closets.  We checked the rooms.  We called their names.  The kids outside said… No, you’re right.  I’m very sorry we caused such a fuss.  Yes, I’ll make sure she’s not in labor before she leaves.  Thank you so much for your help and for not calling CPS because we can’t keep track of our kids.  

After we said goodbye to half of the local police force (it must've been a slow day, because more had shown up by the time we went back outside to see them off), we had a stern talk with the young ones.  

Why did you do that?  

We were hiding.  You were s'pose to find us.  

So, the moral of the story, if there is one?  Never underestimate a toddler's desire to play hide and seek.  Seriously.