In less than four year’s time, I had three kids.
My bra size went up.
My bra size went down.
My bra size went up.
My bra size went down.
You get the point.
My youngest is now three and a half years old, and in addition to trying to lose the baby weight, I’ve also had some dietary changes that has caused me to lose about 70lbs since the day I delivered her.
My boobs went down…
down…
down…
The point is, I go through new bra sizes like Taylor Swift goes through boyfriends.
There really hasn’t been a time where I’ve stayed at a weight long enough to buy more than one or two in a size before it’s time to get measured again – one of my favorite activities – at which point I usually end up buying a new cup and/or band size.
Over the last seven months or so, however, I think I’ve finally hit a plateau with my weight. I went down a little, went up a little, but overall I’ve weighed about the same since September.
Seven months of wearing the same two bras, one black and one white, was too much for the undergarments to handle. The white one actually started to fall apart just before Christmas, which has caused me to wear mostly dark colored tops and the black bra as often as possible.
But yesterday, much to my dismay, I began to feel a familiar and persistent poke to the side of my boob.
The under-wire had broken through the fabric, and the black bra was busted too.
Dammit.
I had a few options:
Option A – Pull out the under-wire in both bras and wear them until they become lop-sided and/or my boobs fall out of the bottom.
Option B – Order new bras online since I am pretty sure what size I wear, but if I’m wrong, I risk having to pay to have them returned and wear the busted old bras until new ones arrive.
Option C – Go to the mall, suffer through another fitting, while in the company of my three year old, and walk away with properly fitted new bras.
There was no clear winner here.
I chose option C.
Spoiler: I chose poorly.
It made me think of this guy:
My three year old daughter has a limited amount of tolerance for my errands. She’s usually okay at the local market and grocery store. She tolerates trips to the post office or even to the mall – so long as I’m not trying stuff on, or in this case, trying stuff on and getting measured.
The girl who would be taking the measurements was busy with another customer, so I used my best guess to begin to shop for new bras while we waited. Knowing full well that every second that passed was one closer to a toddler meltdown, if I could at least nail down the style I wanted, I thought it might speed up the process.
All it took to piss the kid off this time, was gently taking her by the hand and guiding her over to another table so I could look at a different style.
“I was looking at the ta-da’s!” she scowled.
Ta-da’s are her word for bras – I’m not exactly sure why she calls them that, because I know she can say bra just fine, she has just simply chosen to call them something more to her liking.
The term “ta-da” is something I use when I perform a magic trick or do something extraordinary. Like the time I stacked cards and made a house of cards, or the time I roller skated down a small hill on one leg without breaking any bones – “Ta-da!”
You know, I sometimes forget how perceptive kids are though… perhaps she recognizes the extraordinary performance of a garment that can take my breasts from around my belt, and put them back where they were 8 years ago BC (before children).
Ta-da!
Anyway, she wasn’t done looking at the ta-da’s when I moved her to an adjacent display table, and she wasn’t happy about it.
Tick-tock, tick-tock.
I was running out of time.
At our next table, as I waited anxiously for our turn, she began to pick up the ta-da’s, and try them on like hats.
I wasn’t about to make a fuss, and I just let her do her thing, thankful she wasn’t crying, yelling, or worse…then it was finally our turn. We moved to the dressing area, and I was able to set my bag, ta-da’s, and toddler in the small room as I stood in the doorway being measured.
If there’s one thing that all of the toddlers I know hate the most, it’s being confined. Confinement of any type, whether that be in a highchair, car seat, or having their Mom use her old basketball skillz to box out and keep her in the tiny space while a happy, perky-breasted stranger was measuring her mother’s sad, skinny boobs, makes them mad.
After a moment of trying to escape between my legs and fake crying, she then turned to the merchandise and began stacking them on her head. I ignored her while the stranger with the tape around my chest stifled a laugh.
“Your hats are lovely,” the young woman offered as she finished my measurement.
“Yes, they are,” my daughter agreed as she posed in the mirror admiring her reflection. “Except these aren’t mine. We are getting Mommy some really big ones for her really big hangers,” she explained while holding her hands out making the international hand gesture for ”hangers” (aka boobs) which sadly was somewhere between her chest and belly button.
Ta-da!
Next time I’ll take my chances on the shipping, not the toddler.
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