Ketchup Is a Vegetable: And Other Lies Moms Tell Themselves (7 page)

“Yep.”

I was flattered she asked me but I was horrified. I could wear a sarong at the pool all summer, but would probably look suspicious walking down the aisle that way.

I reluctantly started going back to the gym and Blair started doing Weight Watchers. My feelings about exercising when breastfeeding are about the same as they are when pregnant: It's pointless. When I'm pregnant I'm going to gain weight no matter what. When nursing, my body fights to hold on to fat like I'm going to be hibernating. For example... my sister lost nine pounds in two weeks on Weight Watchers; I on the other hand gained a pound and a half going to the gym for a week. (Please save the muscle-weighs-more-than-fat tirade for someone else. When I exercise while breastfeeding I am
ravenous
and will eat anything in sight. I end up consuming more calories than I burn.)

As summer quickly approached I finally had to break down and buy a bathing suit. No amount of tugging and/or lubricant could coax my post-baby body into one of the million suits I already owned. There was no way my baby’s meal tickets were going to be squeezed into anything I already had.

I went to Target (also known to Mommies across the country as their “happy place”), and bought a “Big Girra Bathing Suit.”

“Mommy, how ‘bout this one? It is SO cute!” Aubrey said as she picked up a hot pink string bikini.

I looked critically at the bathing suit she was holding, and quickly deduced that the triangle top probably wouldn’t even cover my zipple.

“No baby. I don’t want the other mommies at the pool to have nightmares.”

We continued back to the “Women’s Sizes” and I flattered myself with the first size I chose and forced it on to my body, Lycra snapped and crackled as I pulled, stretched and sucked it in. After seeing my reflection closely resembled an Italian sausage I'd eaten once, I was forced to get a larger size.

This should have meant that I took off the suit and put my clothes back on to go get another one. But If you're shopping for clothes somewhere you can also buy an ICEE or a foot-long hot dog, you need to realize that
no one
is going to come knock softly on your door to see if you need another size. I'm lazy though, so I put on the swimsuit cover-up I was trying on and walked to get another size, dressed for the pool.

I'm
not
going to tell you what size I ended up in, though I will say it had a "W" behind the numberS. (Plural. As in there was more than one.) I called my sister while I was checking out and she texted back, “I'm in WW’s (Weight Watcher’s) can't talk, ttyl :)”

I texted her back, “How many pts are a Butterfinger & a Coke cuz that's what I'm eating rite now?” Maybe I can convince Anna that
all
of the bridesmaids should be in sarongs.

I
believe I have adequately described how much I hate my boobies. They were large and in charge before I was ever pregnant, but after three pregnancies in four years and breastfeeding all three babies for varied lengths of time, I had shot the elastic in my boobs like a fat girl in a cheap pair of pantyhose. My breasts were not only ginormous, but they hung almost to my waist line, a la National Geographic, covering my rib cage entirely.

There has never been a time in my life when I had small boobs. I’m pretty sure I wore a sports bra under my onesies as a baby. My younger sister came to visit me shortly after her first child and my third child were born. We were eating ice cream directly out of the carton and discussing our boobs as only sisters can.

“Before I had Tucker, I could see underneath my boobs,” she said staring off into the distance with a dreamy look in her eyes.

“Huh?”

“Under my boobs… like when I looked in the mirror I could SEE underneath my boobs. Now they sag, and they feel so gross.”

“Canned biscuit dough.” I said matter-of-factly as I took another bite of ice cream, “My friend Kasey says post-baby boobs are the consistency of canned biscuit dough, and she’s right. I can’t remember being able to see my rib cage much less the underside of my boobs. You’re still perky compared to me so quit whining.”

Because I was finally finished having babies, it was time. Time for me to make an appointment I’d been waiting to make since high school — it was time to call the plastic surgeon. I discussed having a breast reduction with my husband, and while Zeb was very supportive of whatever I wanted to do, he continued to insist that they weren’t “that” big. I’m not exactly sure what “that” was, but I knew that it was time to put the Big Berthas out of their misery. They had served our family well, but it was time to trade them in for some Itsy Bitsy Betsies.

I made the appointment and counted down the days until my consultation. Before I knew it, Zeb and I were sitting on a loveseat in the surgeon’s office, answering questions about my medical history and ogling before and after pictures of the doctor’s other patients. Actually, I ogled and Zeb slept. He had been up with the baby the night before and was so tired that even looking at bare boobies didn’t interest him.

“Oh, honey! Look at those! They are so cute and perky!” I said.

Zeb opened his eyes, wiped the drool off of his chin and tried to look interested.

“What size bra are you in now?” The nurse asked as the doctor walked in the room.

“A 38-F,” I answered.

I saw the skepticism on their faces as they checked out my chest and looked at each other, but they didn’t comment as they escorted me to an exam room.

I was more than a little nervous about “letting down my boobs” in front of complete and perfect strangers, even if they were medical professionals. At least when I go to the ob-gyn for a breast exam, I’m lying on my back and my boobs have some semblance of being round and well… boob shaped. Being horizontal also gives the false impression they are located north of my waistband. I was about to be standing up, totally vertical, so they could get the full effect of gravity on my boobalas and in addition, I would be posing for topless pictures for the first time in my life. (Xanax, anyone?)

I’m no good at nervous small talk. I tend to get diarrhea of the mouth when I am nervous, and it never ends well. After enlisting my husband’s help in putting on a paper gown the size of one of Britney Spears’ bikini tops, I perched on the exam table and waited for the doctor with my zipples hanging out from the bottom of the gown.

The doctor and his nurse entered the room; he sat on his stool, rolled over in front of me and said, “Alright, let’s see what we’ve got.”

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and opened the gown.

“WOW! That’s really surprising. I mean I wasn’t expecting that at all. You are so small framed. You hide them really well.”

I shot Zeb a look and whispered, “SEE! They are
that
big!” I laughed nervously. The doctor began measuring and quietly dictating into a hand-held tape recorder.

“Yeah, that’s the reaction I always get…” I said as I began my monologue. “I mean not that I show them to a lot of people… or ANYONE, I mean I don’t usually show them to anyone… but when I say I want to have a breast reduction people are always like, ‘Why?’ But I don’t show them to anybody… like my husband and my doctor are the only ones that have ever seen them. Well, of course, except for my kids… and my mom. And I guess my sister, and well, probably more people than that because I DID breastfeed, but I always tried to be discreet, but you know sometimes the blanket would slip so I may have flashed a few people but it was totally an accident.” (Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP Robin! The less you talk the faster you can get dressed!) “I’m uh, I’m going to stop talking now…sorry. Sorry. I do this when I’m nervous.”

As the doctor finished his exam, Zeb yawned in his corner and rolled his eyes at me, or maybe he was just going back to sleep. The doctor discussed the procedure, risks and post-operative care and asked if we had any questions before he left the room. I dressed as quickly as possible and asked Zeb, “So? What do you think?”

“His sock was on inside out.”

“What? Are you still asleep? I’m getting new boobs and all you have to say is ‘His sock is inside out’?”

He shrugged and yawned as we walked out of the exam room to schedule my surgery.

The months until my surgery flew by and I struggled with what to tell my children. I wanted them to understand why I wouldn’t be able to pick them up and carry them around for awhile but I didn’t want to scare them or tell them too soon so that they would spend days or weeks worrying.

My mother, Shuggie, was coming to help me take care of the house and the kids while I recovered, so two days before my surgery I decided to talk to Aubrey. I picked her up from school one afternoon and as we drove home I said, “Shuggie is going to be here in two days!”

“Woo-hoooo!” Aubrey squealed and clapped her hands.

“Shuggie is going to come and help us because Mommy is going to have an operation.”

“What’s an op-er-a-tion?”

“Well, I’m going to go to the hospital and the doctor is going to fix my boobies, because they are really big and they make my neck and my back hurt.”

“Ooooo, can I watch?” She asked excitedly.

“NO! You can’t watch!”

“Please Momma! Please, please, please! I won’t touch anyfing, I promise!”

I sighed. As always, my point was completely lost on my audience — at least she wasn’t freaked out by the idea or hadn’t asked how exactly my boobs were going to become smaller.

Later that evening I was spooning Aubrey in her bed, reading a book with her. She was leaning backwards trying to snuggle closer to me when she looked up at me, totally exasperated and said, “MOM. Your booby is totally blocking me!”

“Oh, sorry.” I said as I reached over and hitched one of the Berthas out of her way.

Aubrey snuggled closer to me and asked, “Is that why you are getting your boobies shorter, Mommy?”

Maybe
she hadn’t missed my point after all.

O
ne of the hardest things I have discovered about being a mother is dividing my time between my husband and my children. I never anticipated this problem in the seven years we were married BC (Before Children.) We liked each other. We loved each other. We probably even
luv’d
each other. We enjoyed spending time together, going to a movie on the spur of the moment, taking a spontaneous ride on our Harley, going to Auburn football games and working in our garden. (He worked and I tanned, but whatever.) It was as close to marital bliss as I believe is realistically possible.

When our first child was born it was like someone had dropped an atomic bomb in the middle of our little relationship Utopia. We could no longer go for long rides through the back roads of Lee County on our Harley. For one thing, there was nowhere to strap the car seat and for another, I was an ER nurse and I was terrified that something would happen to me or my husband on the bike and our child would be orphaned. We could no longer spend all day Saturday tailgating with friends, standing out in the hot Auburn sun waiting for kickoff. We couldn’t even go to a movie without planning ahead, getting a babysitter and describing in depth everything our baby might possibly want or need in the two hours we would be gone.

Date nights are important, but they can also be expensive and a lot of trouble. As moms and dads you are already exhausted from working, school, and the responsibilities of life. Very often it’s easier to stay in your sweatpants and order a pizza instead of going through all the effort and expense it takes to actually get all dressed up to leave your house and go somewhere. Many parents give up the fight for date night and slowly, Mom becomes so wrapped up in the kids and Dad becomes so wrapped up in Sports Center that their LUV relationship begins to fade into the background. You need a good and loving relationship with spouse.

The most important reason you need to invest in a relationship with your husband is so you don’t end up in the state penitentiary doing ten to twenty-five hard years for involuntary manslaughter, once you’ve seen all the asinine things he’s going to do to your kid.

There are several areas where you are liable to butt heads with your otherwise intelligent husband. I discovered that not only was my husband completely and totally color blind, he also had some sort of visual disturbance that prevented him from being able to distinguish different patterns, i.e., polka dots from flowers or stripes. This was evidenced every single time he dressed our child, which happened on a pretty regular basis since I was working full time in the ER as a nurse when she was born and he was working on his Master’s Degree.