bewbs.

The other day we were standing in a very long checkout line at Sprouts. The little old lady in front of us was talking to the littles as they orbited the shopping cart, then she came close to me, pulled the nursing cover OFF of Eva T and said, “Oh mercy, and what have we here?!”

“Well, ma’am AND crowd of strangers, that would be my baby. Oh, and my boob.”

That was meant to be a facebook post, but I was too prude to post. Afraid that it might offend someone or be too much personal information for someone else. But my hesitancy also bugged me. I mean, jeepers. I have shared plenty of embarrassing stories, but because this one included the “b” word, I just couldn’t do it.

Well, people, the reality is I am a mammal. And like all lady mammals, I have been given the opportunity to feed my young with my body. With the fat portions of my body that hang about 5 inches north of the fat portions of my belly. If only geography weren’t so prevalent in our culture’s perception of alluring biology.

I recognize this topic, my frustration, and your possible giggles are not new territory in the world of blogging (i refuse to use the term “blogosphere”). But, I’m gonna go there anyway. I like normalizing stuff. I like sharing that what looks like snot all over my shorts in the background of a picture is, in fact, snot on my shorts. I have a bunch of tiny humans smearing weird stuff on me all day long.  I like sharing that instead of taking a shower I wiped myself down with baby wipes and put deodorant on and called it good. I have 5 people, two dogs, and unwanted nature to take care of here, I don’t always have the luxury of showering before I see other humans. I think it is important to share that my yoga pants that are nearly threadbare from wear have been put to yoga use only once. I think you all should know that unless my daughter requests that we paint our toenails, I usually wait until the polish has completely grown out and my talons have made my size 8 feet into a size 8 1/2 before I put any care there. This is the same daughter who looked at my hair this morning and said with a furrowed brow, “Momma hair??” Her tone and expression clearly stating, “I hope my daddy is going to be the one who fixes my hair.” I feel it is imperative that you understand I drink kale, banana, and avocado smoothies twice a day as I lust after cinnamon rolls and wonder how many calories are in tequila.

I share all of this ridiculous crap because I am hoping you are in it with me. That we are all warring against the same stuff. The errant hair, the battle of the bulge, the search for that perfect pair of yoga pants, the occasional unintended nip slip. I mean, don’t worry. I’m not going to stand outside Victoria Secret nursing my baby with my shirt off and giving the stink eye to anyone who has the audacity to be taken aback. But I do, with what God gave me, what God intended. And sometimes it’s going to be ridiculous and I’m going to share. We humans need to laugh at ourselves. Boobs are funny balls of fat that are capable of feeding a baby, and making Sofia Vergara’s voice tolerable.