The brassiere, bra, over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder, slingshots, flopper stoppers and my all time favorite boobie-baskets.

As defined my Merriam-Webster:

Main Entry:
bras·siere Listen to the pronunciation of brassiere
Pronunciation:
\brə-ˈzir also ˌbra-sē-ˈer\
Function:
noun
Etymology:
obsolete French brassière bodice, from Old French braciere arm protector, from bras arm — more at bracelet
Date:
1911

: a woman’s undergarment to cover and support the breasts

To me they are personal torture devices. I wish I never had to wear one, ever.

I remember being in the third grade and my aunt taking me to buy my first bra. I remember her telling me I had to wear one because I needed to, not because I should. From that day forward I have tried all different kinds.

No-wire, underwire, wire-less underwire, cotton, cotton blends, demi, full, unlined, lined, padded, push-up, racerback, strapless, one strap, and wrap-around straps. It’s too much.

I wore so many cheap bras growing up it was pitiful. When Shawn and I got married I had two ridiculous cotton bras. One featured Pepé Le Pew, and the other Fred Flintstone, or maybe it was Pebbles and Bamm-Bamm. Anyways, they were thin might-as-well-have-not-been-wearing-a-bra bras. It was sad.

When I was pregnant with Rapunzel Brenda took Shawn shopping to get me bras. He came home with beautifully lacy itchy bras that I hated. When he gave them to me I actually cried; I was pregnant, it happened a lot. Then I yelled at him for buying me bras that I didn’t like and werent going to fit in a month. What can I say, I wasn’t always a happy person when I was pregnant. Sometimes I was just plain bitchy. (Sorry Mom.)

Eventually we all loaded up in Sue’s truck and headed back to the beach. We were able to return them to Cacique with minimal effort and then the hunt was on.

To me it rivaled a safari. We all scoured the shop looking for just the right one, and when we found it, BANG! Of course to be the right one it had to meet the following criteria:

1. Shawn had to like it.
2. I had to be able to wear it.
3. Shawn had to like it.
4. It couldn’t have too-skinny straps.
5. Shawn had to like it.
6. The piece between my boobs couldn’t touch my chin.
7. Shawn had to like it.
8. It had to be within our budget.
9. Shawn had to like it.
10. My boobs had to stay IN the bra.
11. Shawn had to like it.

Do you see a pattern there?

It was a very long and drawn out safari. I’m sure when Brenda took Shawn he said, “She wears a 36C. What will fit?” Then proceed to buy ones he thought were pretty. I’m sure it took them longer to find him a purple shirt than it did to get me two bras.

It is a little over 11 1/2 years later and my situation hasn’t changed much. What has changed is that now I really hate bra shopping.

Since I seem to be going up in weight and not down I’ve gone up a size. I have been a 36C since junior high. Well, except for when pregnant or nursing. Then I rivaled Dolly Parton with the whole my boobs are bigger than my head thing.

A few winters ago I went up to a 36D, I lost 10 pounds and dropped back down to my regular size. The new bras I bought a few months ago are already too small. I have a feeling I’m going to measure at a 38C/D. My band size has never gone up. Not even when pregnant.

I am not looking forward to bra shopping. It requires multiple stores, with multiple women touching me and telling what I “need.”

What I need is this:

I need a bra that will keep my boobs in check. I do not want them making special appearances whenever they feel the need to breathe.

I need a bra with major adjustments in the straps. I am short and there is no such thing as a “petite” bra.

It cannot have pointy cups. I do not want to hear renditions of “Express Yourself” as I walk past.

It must be fully lined. No one else needs to know if I’m cold just by looking at me from across the room.

It must not have as much material between the cups as it did to make the cups.

I’m leery of “demis.” “Demi” does not usually contain enough material to keeps my boobs in check. Though this one might.

It cannot be a balconet. The straps are so far apart on these that I don’t know how anyone keeps the straps on.

It has to pass my rigorous dressing room test of, jump, wiggle, cross arms below the boobs jump and wiggle some more. If at any time my boobs pop out. The bras fails the test.

It can’t look like a nursing bra, something my grandmother would wear, or something my daughter would pick out.

I generally don’t do lacy bras. They are usually itchy.

I prefer underwires, but I don’t want the wire poking me in the armpit.

I don’t mind showing a little cleavage now and then, but I shouldn’t be able to stick a pencil between my boobs and have it stay there. So extreme push-up bras are out of the question. I mean, I don’t mind a little lift, and I’m sure Shawn would tell you that they need a little help after nursing two kids, but they don’t need to touch my chin.

They cannot contain anything that when poked by my six year old will leak.

Do you see why this may be a problem?

To make matters worse I have a little over a week to figure out where I want to go bra shopping. I am feeling very overwhelmed. After many hours online I am not finding much that I think will work. Though I did get one link from a friend that I’m wiling to try. If I can find it.

Victoria may not not be able to help me this time.

The only good thing I found tonight was the best bra fitting guide ever.

P.S. I don’t even want to think about how many times I used the words “boobs” in this post. But I’m a Mommy Blogger so it’s allowed, right? Right? Please tell me it’s allowed.

Warning.

I took this video while driving home last week. I drive a stick. The video is sideways. If it’ll bug you close your eyes and listen.

I’m the Featured Blogista over at CityStreams today.

It was fun and challenging to answer her questionnaire.

Go check it out.

I love my girls, really I do. If you asked them they’d say yes they know that I love them, and then they’d roll their eyes at you. As much as I love my girls I don’t always love being a mom.

Now don’t get me wrong, I do love being a mom. It’s something I always wanted to be. When I was little I would tell my Mom that I was going to have kids, but I wasn’t going to have a husband to boss me around. Obviously Shawn changed the last part for the better.

So just for you, and in all honesty me too, here is a list of what I hate about being a mom.

Not having any privacy. With my girls being almost 11 and almost 6 1/2 you’d think they’d realize that I don’t need help getting dressed, going to the bathroom, or taking a shower.

An hour before dinner time hearing, “I’m starving and I can’t wait.” Translated that means, feed me in the next five minutes or you’re going to wish you had blinders and noise canceling headphones. At this point I grab a bs chicken breast throw it on the foreman and whip up chicken quesadillas, no sauce. That last part is important. When served with about 1/4 cup of sour cream it makes a semi-healthy meal. The problem with this is that SuperChic picks out the meat and leaves the rest behind while Rapunzel cleans her plate, sour cream included.

Laundry. I know, I know, I have to do laundry whether I have kids or not. My problem is that I can’t keep up. A few weeks ago I washed and folded (getting it all folded at the same time is huge) ALL the laundry. Shawn and the girls even put it all away for me. Fast forward to five days later and SuperChic has no clean clothes. You know those shows where the kid goes through their clothes item by item looking for “just the right thing” and everything that isn’t “right” gets chucked? Well that’s what SuperChic does. EVERY DAY. I can’t keep up.

Cold feet and hands. I hate it when the girls climb in bed with me and put their cold hands and feet on me, because they don’t just put their hands on my arm. Oh no, they lift my shirt and put their hands on my belly or back or in my armpit. Talk about waking up quickly and unhappily.

Homework. I hate fighting with the girls over doing their homework. Even if I stay calm, they end up in tears. Let’s just say I get lied to on a regular basis about the amount of homework. What’s worse is when I’m asked for help. I don’t mind helping, that’s part of being a mom, but I am not going to do your homework for you. Oh, and if you ask for my help and I tell you what you need to do, don’t tell me I’m wrong.

Finding food, everywhere. I’m not a huge fan of letting my girls starve so I don’t get why I find half eaten pieces of fruit/sandwiches/crackers/etc. all over the house. I hate cleaning their rooms because I’m always afraid of what nasty thing I will find. Oh, and the hidden stashes of candy wrappers. Those are almost as bad, because I never know where I will find them. DVD cases, between pages of a book, inside rarely used bowls high up in the cabinets, inside pillow cases, inside backpacks/folders, and thrown inside the covered cat box. At least they’re not sticky.

Whining. Oh how I hate whining. SuperChic has it down to an art. She even knows when she’s doing it, because if you tell her to stop using her “Whiny Voice” she does.

Tattling. This has been what precedes most of SuperChic’s conversations lately, “I’m not trying to get Rapunzel in trouble, but….” Ugh, it’s annoying.

Lying. When I ask them who did something and they both say “not me.” When I ask them, I know it wasn’t me, and Shawn isn’t home to have done it, that really narrows down the list. Once I asked if Tito did it and they both said yes. And they wonder why I don’t always trust them.

Puke. I can handle dirty diapers without complaint. Puke on the other hand, I hate. I clean it up after everyone. Me, Shawn, the girls, the cats, the dogs. The only pet we had that didn’t puke was fish. When the girls are sick I cover their pillow with towels and give them an empty trash can. It’s easier to rinse out the can than scrub four feet of carpet.

Repeat. If I could remove that function from Rapunzel’s cd player I would. I hate listening to this over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over. I get that you miss KK, but listening to “your song” over and over will not magically bring her back to California.

Lack of personal space. Just because you’re standing next to me doesn’t mean you have to be touching me all the time. You don’t like it when I do it to you, don’t do it to me.

Fighting. With two firstborns I deal with this a lot, and I don’t always deal with it well. Especially when in public. I get that you both want to sit by me, but I am going to pick whichever kid that will cause the crying to stop the fastest. Which usually means SuperChic sits by me, even when Shawn is home. Lame, I know.

Arguing. Everything I say merits argument. EV-VER-RY-THING. It’s time to eat dinner = what are we having? = chicken = I’m not eating that = Yes you are. Go to bed = it’s not my bedtime yet. No you can’t have/do _______ = but you (insert Whiny Voice) promised.

And Finally, the zinger. Realizing that my girls are just like me.

So what do you hate about being a mom?