Ketchup Is a Vegetable: And Other Lies Moms Tell Themselves (6 page)

I had finally finished breastfeeding Emma, after eleven long months, and I was tired of maternity and nursing bras. I had birthed two babies in less than two years and I was ready to look like a woman again instead of a dairy cow. I wanted to shed my lactating image and buy myself something fun and flirty. I had my husband’s credit card and I wasn’t afraid to use it. Zeb knew I was buying lingerie, so he didn’t even warn me not to spend too much. I waltzed into the store with a smile on my face as I prepared for my comeback.

“Welcome to Victoria’s Secret, my name is Skinny Big Boobs, let me know if I can help you find a size.”

“Actually, you may be able to help me. I’ve just finished breastfeeding and I’m not really sure what size I am. Could you measure me?” I asked. I watched
Oprah
and I knew that lots of women didn’t even bother to get measured.

Skinny Big Boobs waltzed into my dressing room, measured my still ample bosom, despite ten months of Spin classes and weight training, and left to gather some bras for me to try on.

“Here you go, sweetie. Try these on and let me know what works.” Skinny said as she shoved a handful of pushups, demi-lace, and gravity defying bras at me.

I struggled into the first bra and examined myself in the mirror. I tried to remember everything Oprah’s Bra Expert had said on the show. The bra was uncomfortable — but were the cups too small or was the chest too tight? I sighed in disgust and wrestled my extra appendages into the next bra.

Crap — or was it the same bra I just had on? All the bras Skinny Big Boobs had brought to me were the same color and I hadn’t been paying much attention. I continued staring at myself in the mirror and the mounds of limp flesh where my full perky boobs used to be. This was really getting depressing.

“How are we doing in there?” Skinny practically sang across the top of the dressing room door.

“Um, well, OK I guess. I’m not sure…are these all the same bra? I can’t tell what the difference is.”

“Why don’t you open up and let me take a look?”

Uh, lemme think… because you’re skinny and I’m fat and your boobs defy gravity and mine don’t? I rolled my eyes in the mirror and opened the door.

“Let’s see,” Skinny said as she groped, poked, prodded and pushed to try to make the lumps on my chest stand at attention. “Hmmm. Hm. Hmmm.”

I frowned as I followed her gaze to my right breast, and looked up at her quizzically. What the hell was she looking at?

“Oh honey, it’s okay. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know, lots of women have one breast that is larger than the other.”

“I don’t…” I started to defend Righty, when I realized Skinny was correct. Dammit, Skinny Big Boobs had just called me out for being lopsided.

“You know,” she continued handing me another bra, “you might try on one of these bras without padding. It might help mask your problem area.”

I snatched the bra out of her hand and closed the door to the dressing room. I threw her stupid problem masking bra on the ground and put my own bra and clothes back on. All I wanted was a bra that didn’t scream, “MILK ME!” Something I could feel good about myself in and that
skank
thinks she can come in here with her surgically proportioned breasts and judge me! I don’t think so.

I huffed out of the dressing room and didn’t even bother putting any of the bras back on their hangers. That’ll teach her. If I’m going to pay good money for a sexy bra, I’d rather spend my money at Wal-Mart. At least there they charge what a bra is worth and I won’t have to worry about anyone “helping” me.

So I could
sort
of
understand the women of the world uniting in rebellion against bras and Skinny Big Boobs everywhere. If you just quit wearing bras all together not only could you avoid Skinny, you would probably reduce your Boob Sweat production.

Boob sweat, as I may have mentioned when detailing for you all of the reasons I hate breastfeeding, is one of
the
most disgusting things in the entire world. Something about smashing those melons together in a supportive bra, (FYI, the more supportive, the less breathable the fabric, which leads to more excessive boob sweat) causes the most atrocious sour smell on God’s green earth; a hint of goat cheese gone bad with a nice vinegary finish. Ahhhh! (Not quite as sweet smelling as Johnson & Johnson’s Baby Lotion which
is
the best smell on the planet. I get lightheaded from huffing my kids after bath time. Seriously it’s as dangerous as paint fumes; I almost blacked out once.)

As a first time Mommy, I could not bear the thought of feeding my baby from what amounted to a human garbage dump. I would actually take two to three showers a day so Aubrey wouldn’t have to be exposed to my boob sweat. With my second child I didn’t have the time to shower everyday sometimes and I would feed her in the parking lot of the gym after a Spin class. And the third one — bless Sadie’s tiny little heart — I’ve all but nursed her
while
doing step aerobics. More than once Sadie has gotten a bath only because her oldest sister was cuddling and loving on her and after leaning in to smooch on Sadie’s neck rolls Aubrey exclaimed, “Uggggh! Momma, WHAT is that SMELL? Her smells like SCHEESE!” (When your four-year-old starts complaining that your baby smells like goat cheese, you know the boob sweat has gotten out of control.)

As my Momma says, I come from a long line of “L-M-N-O-P cups.” Momma used to have some
mah-jay
knockers but she had the good sense to get those things downsized a few years back, and she’s glad for it. My
Great-Grandmother
had Big Berthas so huge that she had a breast reduction before they even bothered to sew your nipple back on. I’m not kidding, people. My Momma says they just lopped the ends right off.

I have been looking forward to getting downsized myself since I used my babysitting money to buy my first minimizer. Now that I’ve had my babies and breastfed them until my nipples gracefully touch my toes, I am ready to sign on the dotted line and return to Victoria’s good graces… as long as Skinny Big Boobs doesn’t offer to “help.”

T
rying to get back in shape after having a baby isn't near as fun as it sounds. I personally only like exercising once I’m leaving the gym with a smoothie in my hand. But I’d rather be somewhat thin and miserable while exercising than fat and miserable every day, so I exercise. After having Emma, my second child in twenty-two months, I put the pedal to the metal and lost my baby weight plus a little extra padding I had been carrying around since college. I worked with a fitness instructor and kept food logs. I went to the gym five or six days a week
every
week. I looked good, but I felt even better. It felt so good to have to buy new clothes because even my “skinny jeans” were too big.

Right before I got pregnant with my third child, we moved from Savannah, Georgia to Charleston, South Carolina. I joined a gym the first week we were there. I didn’t want to give myself the opportunity to backslide. My self-confidence was at an all-time high. I had two sweet healthy babies, my husband’s career had taken off and I was able to quit my job to stay at home with my girls,
and
could wear the same size clothes I wore in high school. Life was good.

I was flying high, until I walked into the gym one morning for a Body Pump class. I got all my equipment together and was admiring myself in the floor length mirrors, not too conspicuously of course, just thinking how
fabulous
I looked and how hard I had worked to lose almost forty pounds. When the fitness instructor sauntered up to me, leaned in and whispered with a cute little wink, “Did I see a little baby bump?”

Lord, help me. Lord, help
her.
I felt all the blood rush out of my face and I stared at her in shock.

Was she raised by wolves? Did her Momma not tell her that you
never
ask a woman if she’s pregnant? I don’t care if the baby’s head is hanging out, you never ask a woman if she’s pregnant! Play dumb and say, “Hmmm, Gina. Now something is different about you. Wait, don't tell me! WHAT is it?” I don’t care if she’s screaming at the top of her lungs, “I NEED TO PUSH!” You’d be wise to keep up your Jessica Simpson act and say, “I know exactly what it is! You’ve lost weight!” When she screams, “I’m pregnant YOU IDIOT!!” Then and
only
then is it permissible for you to say, “I
thought
I saw a little baby bump.” (And quite possibly, not even then.)

I looked that skinny little tramp straight in her eye and said, “NO, as a matter of fact you didn’t! But thank you SO much for asking!” She gasped and her twelve-pack and toned thighs took a step back. I couldn’t decide whether to throw my Reebok step bench at her head or stay in the class and glare at her for an hour to punish her.

I ended up staying in class partly to punish the little wench and partly because just getting to the gym with two toddlers is such an inconvenience. You have to pack everything your kids may possibly need or want for the hour you will be exercising. You also get the pleasure of discussing every grunt and/or nuance your children might have and interpret these communications to a nursery worker who can't quit texting her boyfriend long enough to pay attention anyway.

On one of my first visits to the gym after our move to South Carolina, I took Emma, then around eighteen months, to the nursery. I hopped on the treadmill and started to sprint... okay, jog. I was five miles into my run…
fine
, one mile, when the nursery worker came out to tell me Emma had a dirty diaper.

“Her diaper bag has her name on it,” I said as I gasped for the extra oxygen I needed to keep my pace and talk.

“Oh, we don't change diapers.”

I stopped so abruptly on the treadmill that I was almost flung across the cardio-room.

“I'm sorry. You what?”

“We're not supposed to change diapers.”

I had to get off the treadmill to change my child's diaper. My child, who had just stopped crying for the first time since I had left the room. She clung to my leg and screamed as I tried unsuccessfully to extricate myself to finish my run. Wouldn’t it just have been easier on
everyone
for her to change the diaper?

“What exactly are these people getting paid for?” I wondered. Shouldn't they change the sign from “Childcare” to “We're Just Going to Make Sure No One Dies While You Are Exercising?” This is something I would like to have known
before
I signed a contract that included “childcare.” Seriously, half the reason moms go to the gym is so someone else will take care of our kids for a couple of hours and we don’t end up in a padded cell or on the 11 o’clock news!

For this and many other reasons, I have purchased hand weights and an exercise ball to exercise at home when it's too much trouble to leave the house. I prefer to go to the gym; I need someone yelling at me to work harder. Left to my own devices, I would stop at the first beads of sweat, pat myself on the back, say “good workout,” and head to the juice bar.

A few weeks later I got the weights out, and started to workout. Aubrey was four years old at the time, and her partner in crime, Emma, was two years old. Both of them jumped right in with me. As we started doing sit-ups, Aubrey said, “Look Momma, it's easier if you do this,” and propped her elbows up on the floor underneath her.

I laughed. “Yeah, but that’s cheating. You can't use your hands.”

Aubrey glanced at me then put her hands under her head mimicking me. After about two more crunches Aubrey said, “But Momma, this HURTS my tummy. Can we stop now?” It sounded like somebody was ready to hit the juice bar.

I have taken a firm stand against exercising when pregnant for several reasons. The first and most important being that I had horrendous morning sickness with all three pregnancies, I was sick all day long every day for months. This is no way to exercise, and if you lose ten pounds in your first trimester from vomiting, you probably don’t need to be working out anyway. Plus, it was hard to find the motivation to go to the gym when no matter what I did I was gaining weight.

After giving birth to Sadie, my third daughter in four years, I was perfectly happy to be fat for a few months while I finished breastfeeding, until I got a card in the mail from my little brother's fiancée. I called my sister Blair immediately and said, “Did you get a card in the mail from Anna?”

She could tell by the tone of my voice I was panicking so she said, “OH NO! They didn’t break up did they?”

“Oh no, it’s so much worse than that…”

“Aw crap, did she ask us to be in the wedding?”