GIANT

I am one of the most unfortunate of all women -- I am, to put it mildly, exceedingly well-endowed. Top heavy. Large-breasted. When you see me coming down the road, you see my boobies, and then you see me.

I come from a long lineage of well-endowed women and suffer vivid memories of my own mother trying on bras in JCPenney by placing them on her head. If it fit like a yarmulka, the bra would fit her chest. Now, sadly, I can do the same. And, we are not small-headed people, I might add.

It didn't used to be this way. But somehow, after having a kid and nursing him for what seemed like EVER, I ended up with a set of knockers that would make any porn star proud -- that is, if said porn star was interested in having rather saggy, National Geographic boobies around her neck.

Not that I was small-breasted before I had Mike (my friends in college used to call me Chesty Morgan after the porn star with MM breasts who used her wares to suffocate unsuspecting people in her films). But, back then, my breasts didn't seem to be quite so bothersome. Or noticeable. My boobies have, in fact, gotten larger. My bra size has increased from a 38DD to a 38DDD (yes, you read right -- that's 3 Ds), and really it could probably be the next size -- but I'm just not willing to go there.

So I have made a rather bold decision. After much research on the Internet, (oh, what did people do with their time before the Internet?) and seeing that I am in line with the Before pictures on plastic surgery web sites, I have decided to go under the knife and get these bad boys reduced -- like majorly reduced.

I once knew a woman who endured this, and I was absolutely appalled to find out that, during this procedure, they cut your nipples off and then stitch them back on in another location. Like, I was completely and utterly horrified that your nipples would be set down on a stainless steel surgery table. But now, I could really care less. If they don't put them back on at all, it's really not going to hurt my feelings any.

Little Mikey is already a breast man, and whenever I pick him up, he slides his hand down my shirt and into my bra and says, "Mama's GIANT boo-boos." Not for long, you little devil! If your mama had her way, she'd be as flat-chested as you.

For the Last Time

For the last time, people, no -- I am not a Christian rock star; I am the anti-christ.

It has been happening more and more lately, but when I introduce myself to people, the first question I get is: "Are you Sara Groves, the famous Christian rock singer?"

And what I want to say is, "As a matter of fact I am, and I'm just in it for the money because I think God is only for really stoooooopid people."

Then I'd like to make a farting noise under my armpit for special effect.

But instead, I say, with a polite laugh, "No, no...I get that all of the time. That's a different Sara Groves."

Maybe this is my million dollar idea. Maybe I should start writing porn using my real name and perhaps she'd pay me a lot of money not to use the moniker, Sara Groves. Ah ha! I think I'm onto something. Sara Groves -- you better hold onto those Christian purse strings of yours, because I'm coming to shake some change loose.

NOTE: That is the OTHER Sara Groves in the photo. I would NEVER EVER in a MILLION YEARS pose willingly with John Ashcroft.

A Child Won't Starve Himself to Death...A Child Won't Starve Himself to Death...A Child Won't Starve Himself to Death...

As a mother, I can say that almost everything that Mike does (climbs the fence, runs really fast with big sticks, poops a lot) causes me anxiety. And, everything he doesn't do (sit down, entertain himself, use the potty) also causes me great anxiety. But there is nothing that causes me greater anxiety than my son's complete and utter refusal to eat.

This started, oh, let's see here...from about the moment that he was born. He totally SUCKED (and not in the right way) at breastfeeding and between the two of us, he nearly starved to death in the first few weeks of life. We got that figured out, and then thankfully in a few months were able to introduce him to real food -- just in the pureed version -- and he went on a complete and total bender. I mean, that kid packed it away. I didn't like giving him prepared baby food so I cooked all of his food myself and used a grinder to grind it all up by hand (yes, I'm neurotic, but you can be when your child is going to be a Nobel prize winner). And my hand was continuously cramped from grinding and grinding and grinding. For Thanksgiving last year, he ate more than I did. It was glorious.

But that suddenly came to a screeching halt around his first birthday, and getting that child to eat has been a constant battle ever since. In fact, I think I have spent approximately 897,234 hours in the last 11 months trying to force food down that child's gullet.

To no avail.

And let me tell you there is NOTHING more frustrating than cooking something nutritious and delicious that you are convinced your child will love and then having him take one look at it and say, "No! Don't want to!" or better yet, when he visibly shudders because what you have prepared is so completely and totally repulsive (I mean, I might as well be serving up a steaming plate of dog turds) that he vows right then and there to never let a morsel of it past his pursed lips.

So then, while my food gets cold, I spend the entire mealtime saying, "Come on. Just try one bite" and holding tasty bites out for him to try. As my son ducks and dodges and puts up his hands as if I am actually trying to feed him live beetles with a side of scorpions, I can feel my frustration level increase until I want to throw his plate across the room. Not good for a person with a heart condition that is easily agitated by rising blood pressure.

All the while this is going on, my husband is saying things like, "He'll eat when he's hungry. Just relax..." until I want to throw Mikey's plate as hard as possible at Brent's head -- so I really wound him. Yes, mealtimes are fun at our house. Would you like to come for dinner?

Somehow or other, Mikey hasn't starved to death, and he certainly has enough energy, though I'm not sure how. Maybe he's got an EZ Bake Oven stashed in his closet and he's using a lightbulb to make devil's food cake when I think he's taking a nap.

To Hell and Back Again

I am normally a bit of a germ-o-phobe. You know, one of those chronic hand-washers who complains loudly about people who come to work when they are sick and uses paper towells or my sleeve to open public doors. (All smart ideas that normally keep me pretty healthy). I used to work in a hospital in New Orleans, and I learned all of my germ-avoiding tactics while working there. I mean, if there was a heart-attack, stroke, or gunshot victim in the elevator, hold the door! But if there was somebody in there who sounded like they were coughing up a lung, I'd hike my overweight, hung-over ass up the nine flights of stairs to my office before I'd hop in a tightly closed room with germs bouncing off the walls.

But something happens to you when you become a mommy. For instance, last week, Mikey wasn't awake one morning by the time I went to work. This is pretty unusual (though it's more unusual when he's not awake by 5 a.m. on the weekends), so I went in to check on him. He was sound asleep in his little jammies -- covered in his own vomit. (I hadn't seen someone sleeping so soundly in his own vomit since one of my houseguests experienced Mardi Gras for the first time, but I digress...) Anyway, I picked him up and was like, "Poor Mikey!" I kissed his little cheek (which was covered with vomit) and carried him downstairs where I got him cleaned up with clean clothes and a new diaper on. Then I went upstairs and took all of his sheets and blankets and crib bumper and bears and even Cookie Monster, all of which were covered with puke, and threw them in the wash. Then I quickly washed my own hands and went to work.

I mean, the smell of puke, which normally completely repulses me, didn't even bother me. And when I found a little puke stain on my sweater at work, I just scratched it off. WHAT WAS I THINKING??? Did I think I had developed some kind of uber-germ protector now that I was someone's mommy? Did I think that the flu shot I forgot to get would save me?

Because on Friday morning, with my husband out of town and my toddler son feeling completely better and running arond like a crazy guy, I caught the flu. It started out very subtly, with a bit of an upset stomach. I managed to change Mike's diaper, and fix him breakfast and then all of a sudden, while he was munching on his blueberry pancakes, I ran into the bathroom and hurled. My hurling was the source of much hilarity throughout the day as Mikey stood right next to me and pretended to gag and choke and throw up. HI-larious!

The flu progressively got worse until I spent the better part of 9 hours throwing up every 20 minutes -- never mind that there was nothing in my stomach. I had diarrhea, a high fever, the shakes, and the cold sweats. I seriously wanted to crawl into a corner (preferably with warm blankets and a puke bucket) and die.

And I also wanted to throttle my own son, who wasn't very understanding of his mommy not being able to take him to the park or play outside or go for a walk or play with our animals or blocks or do anything besides lay on the couch and cry. At one point in the morning, I vaguely remember threatening to throw away his Mickey Mouse fire truck because he was incessantly pushing the siren button, while simultaneously holding down the Mickey Mouse theme song button, so Mickey sounded like a rapper from the early 80s, "Are are are you you you re-re-re-ready to turn turn turn turn the fire truck on?" over and over and over again, followed by that highly annoying theme song. My empty threat, a result of my own delirium, of course resulted in much crying and carrying on until I finally hissed at him, "SHUT UP!" This, of course, just made things significantly worse.

I was not thinking straight, but I could not think of a single soul in the state of Montana who I would want to expose to this seemingly deadly strain of the flu so that they would take my little devil away from me for the day leaving me alone to retch my guts out in peace and quiet. I thought of calling my mother and begging her to get on the next plane, but imagined that my husband would be home by the time she finally got here from Michigan. And, I wondered if I called up Child and Protective Services and asked them to put Mikey in a foster home for a few hours if they would declare me unfit and refuse to give him back to me when I was once again of sound mind and body.

See, I'm not a sick person who likes to be cared for while ill. I prefer to be left alone and up to my own devices. And, as I discovered over the course of the past two days, I am a sick person who loathes having to care for someone else while ill. Somehow though, I managed to feed and bathe my son, read him about 976 books, listen to approximately 83 hours of children's music, and watch about 29 hours of Sesame Street. We both came out of it alive, though I must say, I think we were both delighted to FINALLY see the white of my husband's eyes approximately three hours after my final vomiting session and two hours before my fever broke.

Anyway, I'm definitely feeling better today, and I'm absolutely DELIGHTED to report that I lost nearly 5 pounds in two days! South Beach! Who needs it?! We went to the park this morning in frigid temperatures, and a lovely time was had by all.

Form of Torture

Children's music....why?