Female fleshy mounds that enslave. Indebt. Nourish. Incite craze. Compromise one’s level of self-confidence. Bust up a little boy sleepover.
Living in a world that’s essentially an ongoing tropical vacation as a self-employed mompreneur hustler has allowed me to embrace my favourite past times. 1. Calling the shots. 2. Throwing away the “power suit”. 3. Going braless.
A male friend of mine, who I consider the brother I never had, has a bra-dar that is as sharp as his boob-dar. He’s always quick to spot big fake boobs. Or my braless mom boobs under whatever I’m wearing that day. It has become a joke of ours to the point where he will text my husband about it like an overly excited pre-pubescent boy. Am I offended? Fuck no. They’re just boobs after all. A body part. (Don’t get me wrong. There is a place and time for bras. I’m not THAT bad about it!!)
Boobs. Bras. The most beautiful bras are the teeny tiny ones that are great for perky little boobs. Like these dreamy ones from Eberjey. Oh how nice that you have pretty little boobies to tuck into pretty little lacy bras! Yes, I’m a bitter C-cupper. So when these lacy things just won’t do the job- the ‘working bras’, the over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders don’t come cheap! My fave Haute Drop Off mamma just penned a perfect little article about her recent surprise bra splurge. Me? I would have bought the antique leather jacket instead. Hands down. Bras off.
As a very liberal and unconventional mom living in a house of boys- the topic of boobs is one that I have chosen to maintain with factuality and humor.
Especially since that night a few years ago that we had to break up Julien’s sleepover because of boobs. Here I was thinking that they were innocently playing Minecraft on the iPad (which has been banned from our home for the past year- and yes warrants a future post), but they had another idea.
A quick check-in on them, caught them guilty as fuck- as they both jumped up from the sofa fumbling with the iPad like two spastic squirrels fighting over a nut in a pillowcase. Very sneaky. Something was totally up!
With swift mom savvy I snatched the iPad and discovered that they had Google searched “boobs”. Which unsurprisingly resulted in a variety of colourful options to click on. From “Teen Girl A$$ and A@$l Party” to “Granny Boob Party”. Basically the most terrible renditions of boobs and not to mention, collection of insecure Daddy-issue wrought females that degrade the entire female sex, that any person should have to witness. Unless you’re that certain male friend of mine…
What bothered me about this “innocent” moment of boy curiosity is that this “girl body part” in our digital age has become such a big fucking deal (no pun intended) for the world to see. Confronting two 7 year old boys about “Granny Boob Party” is not my idea of a typical Friday night.
Initially they both denied it and lied about it. “We weren’t looking at boobs! Pfffft!” (Unfortunately for them they don’t know the magic of “Browse History” just yet.)
Then Julien declared almost in tears, “it wasn’t my idea. I see your boobs all the time mom! I don’t care about boobs! It was —–‘s idea!”
The friend, who really is a sweet boy, did come clean about instigating OperationBoobSearch. And was clearly too innocent to even realize that his “bestie” just threw him under the bus.
What bothered me wasn’t the boobs. It was that they both initially lied. Something inspired me to be a real parent for a moment. I had to make an “example” out of this sitch- so Mike and I decided to shut down the sleepover. Julien was in tears. And the friend in silent tears, in the backseat of Mikes truck as he drove him home that night.
I felt so bad that we broke up the fun boob party. But again, I wasn’t punishing the boob search. I was punishing them for lying and sneaking around just for the sake of these fleshy body parts! I mean come on, it’s not $5.7 million dollars in cash money. It’s fucking- boobs.
To this day, we still jokingly ask him if he’s looking at boobs if he’s in the other room on the iPad or on the computer. He exclaims in an eye rolling tone, “nnnnooooooo!” We also, whenever we see any boob related paraphernalia (which is aplenty living in South Beach thanks to our friendly classy neighbourhood stores, Wings and SurfStyle) ask Julien if we should buy that mug with the boobs on it for his friend.
Yes he hates us.
And yes we are assholes.
I’m sure as my boys grow up this “topic” will not go away anytime soon. So keeping things factual with a sense of healthy humor is my M.O. No boob deal.