Don’t Vajazzle Your Vajiggle Jaggle and 20 Other Things I Wish I Knew When I Was 20.

Posted on October 15, 2012 by ashersmom

A very special person to me is in the midst of her 20th birthday celebration. I won’t mention her here specifically because of what would happen to me if her name starts popping up when people google vajazzling or vajiggle jaggle. Or Honey Boo Boo.

Rightfully so.

I was there when she was just a fetus in her momma’s belly and when she took her first steps. I helped her make and decorate homemade Christmas cookies then returned her to her mother covered in white flour from bow-head to toe.

I’ve bought her excessive amounts of gifts for every occasion and no occasion. I give her everything I ever clean out of my closet because she is the size I used to be. And wish I still was.

I’ve watched her grow up under good and bad circumstances and handle it all with grace beyond her years.

And in 20 years, I’ve offered her boatloads of advice, which she’s always graciously accepted if not always acted upon.

But now she’s 20 and no longer a child who thinks that I hung the moon and my advice is golden and that I’m the coolest person on the planet.

So let me climb down off my pedestal now.

And mourn just a bit.

Okay, that’s gonna take a while. Let’s move on.

This post is my birthday present to her. And my attempt to provide the lasting advice she may not come to me for in her grown-up years.

Don’t Vajazzle your Vajiggle Jaggle.

And 20 Other Things I Wish I Knew When I Was 20.

1. Do not hot glue fake rhinestones to your vajayjay. This trend is asinine and stupid and lots of other words for find-something-better-to-do-with-your-time-and-money. And private parts.

2. In the same vein, don’t wax every pubic hair from your lady parts to please a man. If you wanna do a brazilian for you, go for it. But don’t do it for him. Two very good reasons: A) It hurts like a mofo. Imagine pouring gasoline on your labia, letting it settle in for a bit and then lighting it on fire. Eerily similar. B) Any man who thinks having hair down there is nasty is not worth your time. You’re a woman, not an 8-year-old girl. Trim it, shape it, shave it into a Hitler mustache. But don’t wax it all off. And for God’s sake, don’t even go near the threading shop.

3. Confidence can be faked. You’ll find that if you fake it long enough, you’ll genuinely have it. And there is nothing more attractive than confidence. Not a thing. Not any amount of make-up, not big boobs, not even a great smile. And definitely not a rhinestone-bedecked vagina.

4. Boys come and boys go. Even when you think your life might end because one just went, it will not. You’ll get over it. And you’ll feel even more strongly about another one down the road. When you meet one who makes you want to be a better person, that’s the one.

5. Don’t read Cosmo. Or if you must, know that after one year, you will have read every article they ever write and from that point on out, every issue will contain the same information with a new title. I wasted 20 years reading and rereading “How to Know If a Guy Really Likes You By Reading His Body Language,” and “10 Sneaky Places to Do Kegel Exercises.” P.S. I’m doing them right now.

5. Don’t follow trends. But don’t dress like everyone else. Choose what works for you, and cultivate your own style, even if that means getting it wrong sometimes. People will admire you for it.

6. That being said, don’t pick a hairstyle or clothing trend or even favorite band in high school and stick with it until you die. Whatever your age, stay modern. You may not believe me now, but there will come a day when someone other than Nicki Minaj makes music you like.

7. Don’t be a mean girl. Women really do need to support each other.

8. Always have something for just you. Even when you’re married and have kids someday, make sure you have something besides them that gets you out of bed in the morning.

9. You really do need lots of different bras. Big boobs, little boobs. Doesn’t matter. If you don’t like the way the fun-bags look in something you’re wearing, try a different bra. You’ll see what I mean.

10. Never let cosmetic things like hair extensions and long fingernails stop you from doing something fun. Like getting wet. Or finger-painting with a kid. Life is too short for that shit.

11. People aren’t talking about you behind your back as much as you think they are. And if they are, screw them.

12. Say yes. Especially when you’re scared. No matter how old you get, try new things.

13. But say no when you really don’t wanna do something. Don’t make an excuse. Just say no.

14. Learn to laugh at yourself. Do it often. Do it loudly. Do it alone. Do it with others.

15. Get up when you fall down. Just get back up and keep walking. It’s that simple.

16. Make a PRE-KID bucket list. Kids are a huge blessing but once they come, it’s not about you anymore. Live a full life first. Cross off at least 75% of that list before you have the first kid.

17. When it comes to dating, shop at the variety store. It’s hard to know what’s right for you if you don’t at least try it.

18. Don’t sext. EVER. The internet is full of naked girls who didn’t want to be naked on the internet. If he says, “But it’s just for me, no one else will ever see it,” hit him over the head with your phone the next time you see him.

19. Have the dessert. Drink good wine. Skinny-dip. Ride the roller-coaster.

20. Trust the still small voice inside of you. Learn to listen to and be guided by your intuition. Mine used to scream at me and I still ignored it. It was a mistake every single time. Every. Single. Time. Many of those mistakes have names.

21. Chemistry is not love. Learn the difference by testing out both. Do the chemistry thing first. Don’t marry it.

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What does the still small voice inside of you tell you to do now??? Hint: it’s click this banner once every single day!

This one too if you’re feeling like supporting your girl!

Breaking Up is Hard To Do. Kicking My Breast Pump To The Curb.

Posted on September 27, 2012 by ashersmom

The day has finally come for me to say goodbye to my breast pump.

We’ve had a long and complicated 8-month relationship.

I know what you’re thinking. 8 months? 8 months is not a relationship, it’s a fling.

Well, my dear, you couldn’t be more wrong.

My pump and I have had a relationship that’s much more INTENSE than most others.

Even after a mere month together, it seemed like decades.

My relationship with my pump is different from your relationship with your pump, you see.

We got together in a very spontaneous way.

Neither one of us was looking for anything serious.

My “other man” and his feeding tube.

I had my eye on someone else — someone who just wasn’t quite ready for a relationship.

So in the meantime, my pump and I cozied up, just, ya know, on the side.

I was admittedly just biding my time, waiting for this other person to want to settle down.

But my pump was ravenous. I mean, it never had enough.

At one point, we were hanging out every 3 hours around the clock.

I was literally setting my alarm clock to wake up and spend 20 minutes with my pump.

I wake up for no one.

But there I was.

Sitting there like a junkie, going back and back and back, completely out of control, wanting more, needing a tug.

After a while, we just fell into a rhythm, my pump and I.

I wanted to break it off but I just couldn’t.

As time went on, I did manage to see my pump less frequently but even on my best days, I had to hit that at least twice a day.

Admittedly, our relationship has had its ups and downs.

Sometimes I was really grateful that my pump was there for me when no one else was.

That it was willing to take from me things that no one else would.

But then I’d get mad again and tell it off. Stop sucking all the energy out of my life, stop taking all my valuable time, get out of my life – you make me feel so used.

There were so many times I told my pump I wasn’t doing it anymore. The frustration, the moods were just getting to me, making me feel like I was crazy.

Even while I was sneaking away from my kids and from company to spend a few minutes in the bedroom alone with my pump, I knew it couldn’t last.

So after 8 long months, today is the day that my relationship goes up in flames.

I’ve realized that the other person I was waiting for just can’t commit to me the way I want him to, and I have to stop using you, dear breast pump, as a replacement.

The time has come for us to part.

Thank you for your support.

But get the hell out.

Milestones

Posted on September 17, 2012 by ashersmom

Current milestones at our home:

A, Age: 5

Started kindergarten

Didn’t get kicked out of kindergarten. Fingers crossed, 4 weeks in.

Decided of his own volition to start calling me by my first name instead of mommy, which puts me in danger of having an Amber Alert taken out on me. Especially when he screams things in public like, “I don’t wanna go with you, Toulouse. Leave me alone!”

M, Age: somewhere in the 5 1/2 – 8 month range; No, i didn’t steal him from a hospital delivery room – he’s a preemie. Serious preemie.

Sitting up when propped on his hands. Looks like chimp. Darwinists, debate.

Has achieved Olympic levels of sharting. Score 10. Times a day.

No longer has a heart monitor.

Toulouse, Age: are you kidding me?

No longer pees on self when laughing. Most of the time.

Wore pair of pre-pregnancy jeans out of house. Barely concealed muffin top.

Drove speed limit today. One way.

G, Age: Younger than me, older than the kids.

Is up to listening to 17% of things I say to him that don’t involve the words “sex,” “boob” and “money.”

Boob Men

Posted on March 21, 2012 by ashersmom

My lactating boobs are out-of-control big. Actually, big is just not enough of a word for ‘em.

They were BIG when I was pregnant (see The Top Ten Sucky Things About Being Pregnant.) Actually, they were more HUGE than BIG.

But since I’ve started producing milk, these things have entered a whole new stratosphere.

Now they’re more in the range of gargantuan.

They need their own zip code.

My mammaries are now, without exception, too large to fit into any bra in existence.

Trust me. I have scoured the internet.

No. Bra. In. Existence.

I’ve ordered and tried on every single one I thought might come close to containing these whoppers. Nary a one actually fit properly.

But a couple of them were an inch or so too big in the band and slightly too small in the cup, so I’m using those out of desperation. Short of trying to make my own undergarment out of a couple of big-girl girdles and some industrial strength, space-age elastic, they’re all I’ve got.

If you’re rolling your eyes right now and saying to yourself, “Stop bragging, Beeyotch,” let me assure you — I am not boasting about these things.

Smiling in his sleep, dreaming of coming home.

These things are way too big to be considered sexy or attractive.

Or even containable.

They’re just plain too much.

Even my husband — a self-professed boob man who heretofore thought there was no such thing as too-big boobs — even he says they’re too much.

Without fail, if he walks into a room while I’m changing clothes and gets a gander at them, he says “GOOD LORD!”

Every single time.

Even my 4-year-old is impressed by them.

Seemingly getting in early practice for his future Mardi Gras escapades, he says, “Let me see your boobies” almost every day.

And I can’t help but allow him to see them. Because they’re out constantly while I pump.

He looks at one boob and says, “WOW! Your boobie’s really big. Let me see the other boobie.”

Whereupon he just shifts his gaze to the other one. “WOW! Your other boobie’s really big too.”

This past Sunday, it was my NICU baby’s turn to get a load of them for the first time.

Whatever doc was on staff that day decided we should try to breast feed.

Keep in mind that Meyer is only 5 lbs, which is about what I’m guessing each one of my boobs weighs right now.

I shoved the nipple in his mouth and he opened his precious little eyes to behold a mountain of a breast that was at least twice the size of his own little head.

He looked bewildered and confused.

And kinda scared.

He knit his eyebrows together and laid there in my arms darting his eyes all over the place like, “What the hell? Is this thing going to eat me?”

I spent the entire 20 minutes we were trying to nurse absolutely belly laughing at the expression on his darling little confused face.

Meyer’s almost 37 weeks gestation now. If things had gone perfectly, he’d still be in my belly.

Instead, he’s already been traumatized by my boobies.

I feel pretty certain that, given what they’ve had to deal with as infants, my boys will have extreme views on racks. They’ll either love ‘em real, real big. Or they’ll prefer them as flat as they come.

Or maybe not.

Maybe they’ll go for something in between.

I know I would.