Bra Shopping In A Virtual (y Crazy) World

Caveat Lector (Let the reader beware, it's another blog post about boobs, but no graphic details).

So the time is fast approaching when I may have to leave behind the more attractive, lacy, sexy bras for, how shall I say, ones that serve a purpose other than keeping me fit for being out in public while at a brisk jog or on a chilly day without causing a spectacle or neck strain. I refuse to use the word "utilitarian," but more multi-functional might be a good term for it. Like a Swiss Army knife bra, but without the handy screwdrivers.

So, I searched for "bra size calculator" to see what I might be in store for now. The first one, found at the site of someone who calls herself the "Bra Lady" tells me I'm a 32G!!! What the hell?!!? There is no way that's accurate. 32 rib cage, 39 bust... http://www.lindasonline.com/bra-fitting-calculator.html That's just insane! I could fit my daughter in the cups of that bra and use it as a sling.

So, to keep searching... this site says 36D, which is what I bought most recently and seems to fit well. http://www.85b.org/bra_calc.php OK then, I'm not crazy and my drawer that has 34-36D bras that seem to fit is not a figment of my imagination.

This site says 38B, which is just weird. http://www.afraidtoask.com/breast/brasizeform1.html

This one is 38A, which is even more bizarre. http://www.balicompany.com/fitcalculator.bra.asp Everyone knows an A cup is... rather petite, and that is most definitely not me, and hasn't been for a LOOOONG time.

36C  http://www.bellissimalingerie.com/catalogue/brasize.asp Closer to the truth.

36E http://www.birthandbabyorders.com/shop/categories/1053 (I think, the app doesn't load properly, so I had to do the math the old fashioned way... on my iPhone) Again, I could stop carrying a purse and just stuff my wallet, phone, and Swiss Champ XLT knife into it (never leave home without it!).

Seriously... how is it possible there is such a wide difference between all these? Is it vanity sizing? Can manufactures not figure out if we want to have a smaller or larger bra size? This isn't rocket science or quantum physics. Seems more like string theory. I get that every woman is different, and according to one site, every boob is different, even on the same woman. So are feet, but my shoe size only varies a bit... from 6 to at the most a 7.5. The web sites conveniently say that "most women are wearing the wrong bra size..." well, no duh! When there's such a huge variation in sizing, it's no wonder! Who's fault is that?

I don't want to be one of those women wearing the "wrong" sized bra and looking like I've either got four (due to unfortunate oozing) or one giant mono boob. Or perhaps worse, become that substitute teacher character from South Park in 20 years due to serious lack of proper support. Help!!!!

Luckily, I found this website for maternity wear and nursing bras. Not a bad name for it, Hot Milk? Pretty stuff, doesn't look like the ugly industrial strength over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders you find elsewhere. Although someone should tell the stylist that crimping irons when the way of McHammer pants...oh wait. I heard those were back in "style" too. Ugh.

Anyway... no on line bra shopping for me unless I've tried it on in the store first and know the brand's sizing. I just wish the manufacturers would get their act together... I don't care what the size says on the inside of my bra, I just want it to lift and separate and support and work for nursing and help me get out of speeding tickets. Is that really too much to ask?

Lucky, Lucky Me

I have been bitching about a lot of things on this blog and I wanted to switch things up for a bit and rave about how lucky and extraordinarily blessed I am to have the husband I have. Especially now, at my most vulnerable, awkward, irritable, and (potentially for some men) the most unattractive phase of my life, he is a serious daddy-to-be-stud.

When I read blogs and books from other women talking about their experiences being pregnant, I am often horrified by the way the men in their lives treat them. One got offended and accused his wife of farting on purpose around him (when you have a little spawn sitting on your digestive tract and randomly kicking it, this is truly not something you can always have a lot of control over). Mine just laughs and blames the dog, regardless of what other room he may be in. Many are completely helpless (and unwilling to try) when it came to anything related to food preparation that didn't involve first picking up a phone. Mine is a better cook than I am. Some gave them a hard time for breast feeding as they didn't want to "share" what they felt was theirs. Others were grossed out by the entire ordeal, refused to learn anything about it, and left the details and all up to her. Mine was trained as an EMT, has no weird body issues, and may in fact be more comfortable with the birthing process than I am (which might be easier to do since he's not expected to squeeze an 8lb parasite out of his penis any time soon).

Wow. Of course, I highly doubt that the rest of their relationships were a bed of roses, but it seems that pregnancy brought out the worst in them. I think my pregnancy has brought out the best in mine. He is even more considerate and patient than usual (though isn't afraid to laugh at me when I struggle to bend over and pick something up), very empathetic when I need to vent about my various aches and symptoms (with foot rubs virtually on demand), supportive in reading the books I suggest (well, he's working on that part), attending the classes I've signed us up for, and is constantly worshiping my belly and telling me how beautiful and sexy he thinks I am. He's indulged me in my furniture refinishing ideas, nursery preferences, and ranting about bad parenting stories I read about with nary an eye roll or sarcastic comment. I'd like to think that my lack of dramatic mood-swings/freak outs and 2:00am cravings for mango chutney and doughnuts that he MUST GO GET NOW OR DIE because YOU DID THIS TO ME YOU ASS, AGHHHH!!! might have made his job easier... but even if I'd turned into ranting psycho pregnant chick (I still have 9 weeks!) I think he'd still take it all in stride.

Oh, and don't get the idea that he's a doormat. Not at all. If I suggested we should seriously look into baby helmets, bubble wrapping the furniture, spraying down all potential guests with Lysol, or some other such whack-a-doo idea, he'd speak up in a hurry. He's just good at picking his battles and (seemingly) believes that I'll wind up in the moderate center on my own once I back away from the web for awhile.

While part of me would like him to be a little more freaked out about this life-changing project we're taking on like I am, most of me cherishes how grounded and unflappable he is as it makes a good anchor for me to cling to after reading another article about the "792 Things In Your House That Could Kill or Seriously Maim Your Child In Under Two Minutes, While You Sleep!"

If he's half as good of a father as he's been a husband through out this process (and I know that won't be the case!), then our daughter will be one lucky girl too. Lucky, lucky both of us.

My Lovely Lady Lumps

My Eyes Are Up HERE!!!

 I have had an unusual relationship with my breasts. We've run the gamut, them and I, in a way I think most of my friends haven't. (Dad, if you haven't already, you might want to stop reading now. None of this is top secret stuff, no surgeries, tattoos, or piercings but really, how much do you want to know about your daughter's boobs?)

When I was about 13, I started getting a little concerned. My best friend was all ready well endowed in 7th grade, and I had (of course) nothing. Not unusual for a 13 year old white girl. However, my Mother told me many times that I shouldn't expect to get breasts until (if ever) I got pregnant, as that's what happened to her. So, I was resigned to being flat chested... although that didn't stop me from experimenting with stuffing my bra, duct tape, and the miracles that a Wonder Bra could provide. I gave up on the stuffing quickly though when, after carefully placing two cotton balls in each cup of my training bra before a co-ed dance in 7th grade, a boy I was dancing with gave me an "accidental" boob graze and I was positive he could tell what I'd done. Yeah, right, because 13 year old boys have so much experience with that type of thing. For all I know, he still thinks back fondly to the first time he "copped a feel." Ha!

I turned 16, still nothing much. I had nick-named them (ironically it turns out) Itsy and Bitsy. My best friend was now a D+, and a couple others were gaining fast. We joked about getting a transfusion after graduation so that we'd wind up somewhere that would make us both happy. We were only half joking.

I moved to Seattle and TA-DA! The boob fairy came! Yea! She wasn't especially generous, but at least it was something. I went down and visited friends in LA at age 17 and at least got guys to talk to my chest instead of my eyes for a change, so that was nice. I wound up with a 34B and was pretty happy with things. Still passed the pencil test, found bras in regular stores that fit, had cleavage, and could get away with wearing something backless without a bra. I liked my breasts, they were the perfect size for my frame. Not to brag, but  in my late 20s I dated a guy who, how do I put this, had worked with many lovely women who were often semi/mostly nude for professional reasons, and he told me quite honestly and without provocation that I had the best rack he'd ever seen. I thought that was quite the compliment!

Then, the Boob Fairy came again. And again. And again. Between the ages of 31-35, I went up two cup sizes. I'd also put on about 20lbs, but it seemed most of that was on my chest! So now, button up shirts wouldn't stay buttoned up and were in danger of sending a button flying off into someone's eye, bras were a requirement, men (and even some women) were much more easily distracted around me, excavating was required when laying face down at the beach, an exercise class without a sports bra was a painful, distracting, and nearly revealing mistake, and I was now the girl among my friends who had big boobs! How the hell did that happen?!!? I really just couldn't see that for quite awhile, I was still so caught up with my image of Itsy and Bitsy and just being thankful of my 34B... but 34D?!!? That's crazy talk! There must be a mistake, like how a size 6 is the new size 2. It's vanity bra sizing, right? Alas, no.

The thing is, I never wanted to have big boobs. I saw how my friends with big chests were treated by others, and how they saw themselves as a result. We couldn't shop at the same stores, because tops for teens weren't made to stretch that far. Adult men treated them like adults because all they saw were adult sized boobs and their eyes never made it that far north to see that they were still kids. The beach was a hassle, between bathing suit fiascos, excavating to lie down, and more unwanted attention. Their boyfriends were often obsessed with them to an annoying degree. They had unhealthy self-images and unhealthy relationships with men as a result. I was just fine with my second letter of the alphabet, thankyouverymuch.

So, now I'm pregnant, and here we go again. The Boob Fairy has earned enough frequent flier miles coming to our house to get her a trip to Europe, first class. And the fun is just starting! They say you can go up as much as TWO additional cup sizes once your milk comes in. I think I might refuse to admit to being an E (if things go that far) and just refer to it as DDD. I know things will go back down again (hopefully!!), and I might even be back to a 34B again, but it won't be the same. I do plan on breastfeeding, 6+ months, and that just takes a toll on things. As a trade off though, I will hopefully have a happier, healthier baby and have shared an amazing bonding experience with her in the mean time. I suppose failing the pencil test will be worth that. (Sigh) If I can keep my chest point average above a 2.0/C, I'll be content.

Itsy and Bitsy my ass.

And Now For Something Completely Different...

If I could take a brief break here from my usual sarcastic, dark humor, I wanted to talk about something serious. Regularly scheduled programming will resume soon.

Recently, right before the holidays, a friend of mine had tragedy strike. Her step-mother was 2 weeks from full term and one day wasn't feeling her baby daughter move any more. A quick trip to the hospital revealed that the baby had passed, and was delivered still-born.

My friend was reluctant to tell me this news, not wanting to upset me given my current condition. While I appreciate her consideration, I'm glad she did. Not only so I can offer her condolences and sympathize, but because it has made me appreciate every kick, jab, and wriggle that much more. It hasn't gotten painful yet, but when she starts in on my ribs or various organs, I'll grin and bear it that much easier just being glad that she's moving around in the first place.

It also inspired a conversation with my husband about what we'd do if something like that were to happen to us. I've read about an organization (that hopefully you, or I, or anyone we know will never have to use) that has photographers who volunteer to take photos of stillborn babies for the family to remember them by. If you need a good cry or are feeling too optimistic today, you can visit their site here: Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep. I would want this. I would always have the option to not look at the photos, but never to take them again.

She wasn't sure if it would be "OK" to tell other pregnant women about what happened. I told her I think it depends on the woman. I appreciated knowing, but wish that they knew WHY it happened. Knowing why gives us a feeling of empowerment over the situation, however realistic it may or may not be. A close friend recently lost his three month old nephew to SIDS. Tragic, certainly. However, it sounds like the baby was put down in his parents bed (for various reasons), not his crib, and the extra bedding and softer mattress may have been a factor. Even if it wasn't, at least we can say "We'll never do THAT!" and feel better about our chances of avoiding a similar fate.

I had a friend (Tyler) in high school die from sleep apnea, which some think is just a more adult version of SIDS. One day he was here, the next he wasn't. If there was ever perfect timing for something that tragic to happen, he had it. The day before my Drama class (of which he was a part of) had a day long field trip to a local school to teach improv and perform. We were all good friends and several of us were especially close with Ty. I (after this sudden and unexplainable urge) had brought my camera and documented the day, including lunch at Crossroads Mall afterward. I seem to remember we then wound up at someone's house and watched movies and played pool. It was a great day spent with a bunch of great friends. Any other day would have been just another school day or weekend where we wouldn't have spent nearly as much time together, or had as many reasons to take photos. The next day, he was gone.

That was a rough way to deal with mortality at 17, and there was nothing and no one to be mad at. No drunk driver, no cautionary tale about drugs. Just... sleeping. However, in retrospect, there were some warning signs, mainly that he snored like a truck driver and when teased asked "have you ever woken up and realized that you haven't been breathing for awhile?" Yikes! We certainly wished we'd taken that more seriously, but what teen thinks they're that vulnerable, especially in regards to... terminal snoring?

So since then I've encouraged, nagged, begged and frightened several friends and family members (and even some total strangers) to go get tested. Several of them either had surgery and/or sleep with a machine now, and it's transformed and even possibly saved their lives. That's the silver lining I take out of all of this. So, here's my PSA... put your babies to sleep on their backs on an approved crib mattress, with no pillows, blankets, stuffed animals, bumpers or other things that can get near their faces, and if you know someone who snores like an angry, drunk bear, and/or stops breathing while sleeping or wakes up coughing/choking... they need to be checked. Their friends and loved ones will thank them, and so will Tyler and my friends' nephew and sister.

Peace and love to you all. ~S

It's Alive (& Kicking)!

So I've been feeling the baby move for quite awhile now, starting around 13 weeks I think (going on 23 now). The other day she got hiccups (or was beating out a rhythm on my organs), which was kinda weird and funny.

Today while sitting at the computer I had one hand on my belly and felt her kick especially hard and saw my hand move in my perephial vision so I pulled up my top and this time I SAW her kick... or at least the bulging of my stomach in reaction to it. Super cool, but also kinda creepy. Another "is this pregnancy or a scene from Aliens" moment. This has been a owner occcupied only body for 35 years, it's kinda weird to have another being sharing it with me now.

We're headed to Barra de Navidad Mexico Wednesday through the weekend for a babymoon/birthday party. Will be nice to catch up on some of the sun I missed while stuck on the couch this summer being sick. Haven't spent much time there since I a) grew up in southern California which is not hugely different in parts from Mexico, and b) can't stand most Mexican food. I'm glad that I have the excuse of being pregnant to be picky about food at least, otherwise I'd be eating a heck of a lot of quesadillas!

Met with a couple of doulas today. I like the idea of having someone who is there just to take care of me (and Brooke) while the midwife is focused more on the baby. She'd be here at the house with us when labor begins all the way through the whole ordeal helping to keep me focused, calm, and as pain free as possible (hah!). One can always hope.

I am totally full from an awesome seared ahi tuna wasabi salad... but I can't stop thinking about the giant ripe pomegranates down in the kitchen. Mmmmmm....

Congratulations! It's a.... Freak!

How about breast feeding this one?!!?

So, we had our second trimester ultrasound on November 1st, and aside from checking the regular stuff (heart, lung, size, weight development), we also got to check out Spawn's junk... or in our case, the lack thereof. If you can't tell by the demon baby all dressed in pink in the photo, it turns out Spawn is a girl! It's funny, we were hoping for a boy, but both felt that it was a girl. Bring on the pink... ugh.

We were hoping for a boy because we both find that boy type toys are more fun to play with, however I had "boy" type toys growing up, so perhaps that will work for our daughter too. No Barbie dolls for me, I preferred my microscope, erector set, Leggos and climbing trees. I did however like to play dress up and "make over" (not hard to believe for everyone who's ever met me I suppose) so I wasn't a total tomboy. One of the neighbor girls I used to practice on was in Playboy (the brunette), which I take total credit for, even if the last time I saw her she was six and we had to use tennis balls to fill out her bathing suit.

I also HATE the color pink. I hate the image it represents, a girly girl, all demure and subservient, princess like and helpless, just sitting around doing her nails and hair and waiting for a man to come and rescue her from herself. A girl who wears pink wouldn't be thought to know how to change her own tire or carry a Swiss Army knife or know how to use a compound miter saw. I know this is just a stereotype, but images can have power, and how we present ourselves to others colors their perception of us and how they treat us, and in return how we think of ourselves.

Why does it seem that most baby related stuff is either pink or blue? I mean everything... from bottles, to pads you kneel on by the tub to bathe them, to bedding, even little tickers you can post on your website to do a countdown to "Eviction Day" are themed either blue or pink with icons of teddy bears, balloons, flowers or a Smith & Wesson Model 29 .44 cal magnum revolver (ha! Kidding about the last one... I hope). What's wrong with earth tones?!!? Is it really so important to impose a rigid gender identity on your child before it's even born?

I have found more neutral toned baby items than I thought I would. I was afraid I'd be relegated to either pink/blue pastels or neon bright primary colors unless we shopped in expensive European stores. Even BabiesRUs had some things that didn't make me cringe at the thought of having in my home (of course I'm not talking about the children who were running amok through the store like it was a Chuck E Cheese during free double shot espresso hour). I actually rather like this Zen collection and hope it's not crap that just looks good.

So, now I have to get used to the idea of having a girl. I hear they're easier on the house and such in the beginning at least, but of course make up for that when they're teens. I was a rather stubborn pain in the ass as a kid, but at least I didn't do drugs or drink (much) or get tattoos or the like. Brooke, of course, was an angel and left all the rebelling to his older brother. We'll see who our daughter turns out more like. She'll still grow up knowing some basic car maintenance, how to use power tools, get chocolate out of a cashmere sweater, the proper way to address a thank-you card, ballroom dancing, and basic self defense moves.

I don't really get people who don't want to know the gender. Especially first time ones. I figure that parenthood provides enough surprises that we'll take all the advantages we can get! Besides, it makes it a lot easier to bond with the kick-boxer in my belly... I see other little girls and imagine my own, I can picture her in neat little dresses and start putting her nursery together in a slightly more girly fashion, as in French influence over Italian if it was a boy. I've already started collecting hats. :-)

By the way, no, we haven't decided on a name. Most likely Dee for the middle name, that's my middle name and my paternal Grandfather's middle name, whom I've never met as he died before I was born. Other than that... I like names that are flexible and not a pain in the ass to spell. Like Elizabeth... she can decide she's a Beth, or Lizzie, or Liz, or Liza when she gets older. I really dislike names like Jessyca or Sandi (not just because that last one is my ex MIL's name) because no one will ever spell it right, she'll never find her name on a hat at Disneyland or license plate for her bike, and I think it's just plain mean to brand your child with a name that says "I'm trying to be unique by spelling my name like a stripper would, but really I'm just a high-maintenance pain in the ass with unimaginative parents." Take this with several grains of salt, as I am aware that I have several friends with uniquely spelled names, and/or possibly children with the same affliction. I'm just really bad at remembering names and weird ones really throw me off, so this is how I've reasoned it's their fault and not mine. :-)

Oh, and the final bit of ultrasound news is that she apparently has not suffered from my lack of proper nutrition during the first few months, as she's in the 100th percentile for size right now. Average for this point is 12.5 ounces, and she's 16! That's only about a week ahead in growth, but still, not on track for a baby with a small head we were hoping for. Means we get another ultrasound in the third trimester to make sure she'll fit out the way nature intended, preferably without splitting me in two in the process. So far it's baby 2, us zero. I suppose we should get used to that!

One final serious note... her arms are a teeny, tiny bit short. Per whatever scale they use, normal is .90 and she's .88. Nothing to worry about or warrant further testing, but could possibly be an indicator of Down's. The odds are 1 in about 5,000, and nothing else (blood tests, heart, neck measurements, leg length, etc) indicates a problem. An amniocentesis would give us more info, but then the odds are 1 in 100 of miscarrying (a likely healthy baby) from it. Not worth the odds. So, for now we'll cross our fingers and hope it's just a weird mix of my Scottish/Irish genes and Brooke's Scandinavian ones. Hopefully she's got my Hodge chin and thick skull and Brooke's pretty jade green eyes to go along with her stumpy arms. Brooke has suggested changing her nick name from Spawn to T-Rex, but I told him that's totally inappropriate. T-Rex is a boy's name. Maybe we'll call her She-Rex instead. A bit nicer than "Stumpy," don't you think?

I Do Have a Filter, Really!

Just so you know, there really are some things that are too personal for me to share on here. Something happened the other day that was just so weird, funny, bizarre that I really did want to blog about it, but it was also rather personal and you wouldn't be able to look at me the same way again if I told you. So now you're just going to have to wonder... and I promise you, whatever you come up with won't be nearly as bizarre (and funny) as the truth.