Morning thoughts . . . an evening reflection.

Today started off well because I actually woke up before my kids and my husband. You know what that means? Not only did I get to take a shower, I actually got to take my time in the shower. I shampooed, conditioned, shaved, lathered, exfoliated, and reflected on my life while posing in a Tebow stance. I did all those things without having to hear, "Turner, leave Mommy alone." or "MOM! Where's my (insert object of desire here)?" or my other child crying from the nursery.

I'm not 100% sure, but I think there is an alarm that goes off in Lauren's crib as soon as I start washing my hair. Never fails. I pour a blob of shampoo in my hand, pause to listen for crying, hear nothing, place blob on top of my head and start rubbing, BOOM! I hear Lauren screaming from across the hall. I quickly rinse, grab a towel, and rush to the nursery only to realize that Lauren is still sleeping. I do this CONSTANTLY.

After my shower, I put on my bra that must have stretched in the wash. I don't remember my baloobas only filling half of the cups the last time I wore it. Oh wait, that was before my milk supply started depleting.
Side note: have any of you tried Mother's Milk? It's a tea with the herb Fenugreek. It's supposed to help you produce more milk. Today was my first day trying it and it tastes like someone dropped a Good N' Plenty in a cup of warm water. It's pretty horrible. I have to drink it holding my breath, closing my eyes, and chugging it like I'm a sixteen year old at a keg party.
Anyway.
When I put on my bra this morning, I had a gap between my breasts and my bra that could easily accommodate a couple of hamsters. That is, if I were a hamster smuggler. Which I am not. Yet. (Note to self: Visit pet store and look for hamsters that look desperate for freedom.) Regardless of my cup size, which I have yet to establish, I choose to look at my cups as being half full versus the pessimistic half empty perspective. Let me tell you why. Big cans aren't what they are cracked up to be. Sure they look nice under heavy fabric but as a D cup veteran, they are quite an obstacle. Large bazoons are heavy, they make it practically impossible to wear a button-up, and they can make any shirt look trashy because of the endless boob-crack that begins at your sternum and ends below your 3rd row of ribs. Plus, large breasts try to sneak into your armpit and steal your deodorant when you lay on your back. Do some of you ladies now understand why you are waking up with b.o. in the morning? It's not night sweats, it's your hooters. Thank goodness I wear a bra to bed, but that's another story.

Hooters. I never eaten at a Hooters. I hear they have good wings. I'm not a fan of the sheer nude hose some of the girls wear under their shorts. I've seen it in their advertisements. It looks tacky. Are they trying to hide their spider veins and cellulite? It reminds me of an 80's Jane Fonda exercise video. Wait a minute, I guess Hooters slogan is 'delightfully tacky, yet unrefined.' What the hell does that even mean? I thought about being a Hooters waitress once. Seriously, I did. Good thing I got over that. Even though the tips are probably amazing, I'm not sure a job at Hooters screams, 'Take me seriously. I'm not an object, I'm a career woman!' Then again, neither does a career in Massage Therapy. Truth is, at the end of the day, someone just wants to see if they can peek down your shirt, be grazed by a nipple, or hope for an inseam that might define your camel toe.

Does your spouse or boyfriend have a name for your breasts? Hubs just refers to mine as 'Boobs'. I'm ok with that. Nothing ruins a sexual tryst more than anatomically correct terminology. Anatomically correct terminology and / or  a picture of their parents on a bedside table. Or any music by the band Styx. Or a pet watching you from the floor. It's hard to put on your porn face when you are being stared at by a carpet scooting pug named Tex.