Unpretty

A while back, I made a small change. It was not huge, and I mostly did it as a temporary measure.  I would wear concealer and cover-up to hide blemishes and bulging pimples. It didn't make them entirely go away, but it tended to even out my skin tone a bit. But it also seemed to clog my pores even more, which meant more pimples and blackheads and general grossness. It was the vicious cycle of blech. But I had one breakout about a month ago that got so bad that I could not put anything on my skin for a couple of weeks. I had to go to work with big red scabs, oozing zits, and all that amazing stuff that you see on zombie movies. 
As they were healing, I came across this video.

I totally love the song and the message. Granted, I realize that she is not actually being "Photoshopped"but just layering video with cuts of her with different makeup, lighting, hair, etc. Regardless, it shows that THIS is what girls look to.  We are told, overtly and subconsciously, that we are supposed to have highlights in our hair, smouldering eye makeup, flawless complexion, striking eyes, rosy lips, and a light pleasing skin tone. Maybe a skinny neck, too. Add a thigh gap and you're golden.

I have never had flawless skin. I have freckles, pimples, and I could crush a walnut with my thighs. There is absolutely no gap there. My skin burns really easily and I don't tan. My hair is poker straight and is a dirty blonde shade - my Baba says that it will probably turn bullshit brown like hers did. For the past few months I have been adding raspberry-red chunks of colour for fun, but definitely not for anything other than to add to my love of bright colours.

But after my forced make-up withdrawl and this video, I made a decision.

I stopped wearing makeup to work.

I feel like I can be a role model for my middle school students who are at the age where they are starting to figure out what they are supposed to be. That they don't need makeup to be beautiful or express themselves.
I also feel like they could very well be pointing at me and laughing behind my back.

After years of covering up my natural skin and reading fashion magazines, this is something that I am still getting used to.  I have focused a lot of energy on being physically and mentally strong.  Now it's time to be brave.

Right now I feel naked.
Right now I feel vulnerable.
Right now I feel unpretty.

I also feel free.

First you get him a mickey of rum...

After posting about my impending tubal ligation, I was asked by a friend why my husband was not getting a vasectomy.  I'll admit, this is not the first time I've fielded this question. Most people do not understand: I went through four pregnancies, one miscarriage followed by two months of complications, one easy delivery (Keesadilla), one semi-complicated delivery (Sashimi), one dangerous birth (iBean). Haven't I been through enough?  What can I say? I get off on being a martyr? No...that doesn't sound right.  I'm a sucker for punishment? Uh-uh.
Last year, when I first brought up the subject with my family doctor, asking what needed to be done in order to get a referral or whatnot to get my tubes tied, he looked at me with serious eyes and said:

"First, you get a mickey of rum.  Then you give it to Tony and tell him to grow a pair and get a vasectomy."

I burst out laughing.  I love my doctor, but that was the first time I had ever heard him say something like that.  I then explained that Tony is MORE than willing to get a vasectomy.  I think he wants to be a baby and be catered to for a few days.  Too bad, sucka!  He used up those get out of housework cards when he screwed up his knee playing ball hockey and sprained his ankle for the 4th time. However, my logical process is this:
I am the one who has the health problems related to pregnancy. I am the one who should not have any more babies.  If something were to happen to Tony (God forbid) and I ended up remarrying, I still should not have any more babies.  However, if something happens to me (God forbid) and Tony remarries, he can procreate at will.  He is a great dad, and if he wants to have more kids with a second wife, that is fine by me.*

Does this make sense? It does to me, but I know I can be a bit irrational sometimes.  Especially when I lose things (Where the heck are my keys?  TONY!! HAVE YOU SEEN MY KEYS?  Oh for fuck's sake.  I had them in my purse and now I can't find them.  Freaking kids always moving my stuff around...fuck!  I'm going to be LATE!  WE'RE ALWAS LATE!  I HATE BEING THAT FAMILY WHO IS ALWAYS LATE! Tony and your damn running on Mexico time all the time...Where the FRICK are they?  *puts on jacket, feels in pocket* OH.  NEVERMIND!  I FOUND THEM!)


*Although after this very LONG Christmas break with Sashimi being home every.stinking.day and the boys doing an exorbitant amount of fighting and us doing more than our share of yelling and kicking some ass**, Tony says he is now sure that he does NOT want anymore kids...lol

**I do mean kicking ass metaphorically. We in no way kick our kids in the ass.  Or anywhere else for that matter.  Unless you're talking about Mario Kart. Then we sometimes kick Sashimi's ass.

Reflections

One year ago I was eagerly waiting for iBean to master breastfeeding. Now, with mixed emotions, I await a pre-op appointment for a tubal ligation.
I don't really want to be done having babies.  I would love to give iBean a little sister to play with.  Heck, even a little brother to call "her baby" and force Barbie-time on him. Or tea party. But not Bratz or Monster High.  WTF are those anyway?  So wierd.
But my body really cannot handle another pregnancy.  And so we have to call it quits.
On the one terrified hand, I have been living in fear of getting pregnant for the past year.  Because of my continued hypertension, I cannot go on birth control pills.  I was given the option of an IUD, but that does not appeal to me what.so.ever.  I still have not had a period since iBean's birth, so it's not like I can even avoid sexy parties on certain ovulatory days. So we have been playing Russian Roulette with condoms.  So far, so good.
On the other weepy hand, I sort of wished that I had fallen pregnant by accident. I could have tried to have another baby without all of the questions of "ARE YOU CRAZY?  YOU COULD DIE!" and retorted: "WELL, WE USED CONDOMS' BUT THEY'RE ONLY, LIKE 98% EFFECTIVE." And then Ross screeches "THEY SHOULD PUT THAT ON THE BOX!"
See? No guilt there.  I could say we tried to avoid it, but God obviously had other plans for us.  Not our fault.
But they do put that on the box.  And when used correctly, condoms work.  Of course, being married to a health care professional means he ensures they work.  Every. Time.
So when I went to get a renewal on my blood pressure medication last week, I asked the resident if I could be referred to a surgeon to get my tubes tied.  I can't live in fear of pregnancy anymore, and I know that a pregnancy could very well kill me, my baby, or give me a stroke and leave me disabled, or give my baby a stroke and leave her disabled, or what the heck, all of the above.  And, since iBean was born at 32 weeks, my chance of having another premature baby is high, and I could definitely live without another NICU experience.  Not the the NICU was bad, in fact, the nurses were pretty awesome. It was just a very high-stress time for our whole family, even with iBean being a medical marvel.
There is the small chance that it could all go smilingly well and I could have a very uneventful pregnancy and a nice 7 1/2 lb baby like Keesadilla. 
But the odds are not in my favour, particularly since my body never fully recovered from what happened with iBean, despite the specialists telling me that there was no reason that they could see that I wouldn't go back to being a normal 29-year old that doesn't need to be on blood pressure medication.
So I am going against my Catholic roots and having a medical procedure performed to prevent procreation.  I've had a hard time with this one, but I have to believe that God would rather my children have their Mommy with them than be motherless with one more sibling.

Tales from a B-cup Sixth Grader

I have 6 different sizes of bra in my wardrobe.  I have worn all of them in the past year.

Half of me was an early bloomer.  Relatives used to tease me about having "mosquito bites" in the fifth grade, and I innocently thought they were actually referring to real mosquito bites when they were, in fact, referencing my lopsided chest.  My left side decided to start developing breasts at the tender age of 10 while my right side clung to its girlish body.  I was immensely embarrassed of this.  A friend of my mother's, who happened to be a physician, came for a visit and my father thought it would be useful to consult this friend about my breasts, questioning whether they would always be that way or would things correct themselves in time, as though having lopsided breasts would become a pandemic to be feared and its victims shunned into asylums.

I remember my mother taking me bra shopping for the first time and buying me not the cute little training bras that all my friends wore, but very womanly underwire B-cup bras while my mom wore an A cup.  I was 11.  And the chest kept growing.

By the time I was 17, I was very comfortably into a D cup, although I often crammed those puppies into a C.  High school girls aren't supposed to have D cups.  They are supposed have cute perky boobs without their own gravitational pull.  And even though most high school guys have boobs on the brain 24/7, it seemed that a smaller chest was indirectly proportional to how popular a girl was with said boys.  Make sense to you?  I didn't think so.

Over the course of the next two years, I lost over 40 lbs.  I was not a big girl to begin with, but I felt that I needed to be thinner (that's a whole other post) and I got down to an A cup.  The cute bras and tiny tops were all mine!  But this was not meant to last, since I was clearly well below my body's natural weight, and they shot back up to a 34C over the course of 2 summer months and a trip to France where several pounds of cheese and baguettes were consumed.  My then boyfriend (now husband) was ecstatic.  So was his roommate (or so I've been told).

Then I started this whole "mom" thing.  I had to buy bigger bras twice while pregnant with Sacha.  Then I nursed him for 14 months, which left me with saggy "high Cs low Ds", according to the bra lady who sized me up last summer.  Then, my boobs started getting bigger again: enter pregnancy number two.  Seven weeks after delivering and breastfeeding Kees, I went to get properly fitted for a nursing bra, since all of mine made my boobs look like they were trying to eat my navel.  Where do I stand now?

32E.

That's right.  Next to that tiny 32 there is a giant E.  Again, the husband is ecstatic.

And I have come to terms with this.  I am cursed with ginormous boobs that seem to get bigger with every baby.  I tried to wear my bathing suit last week and the girls popped right out the top.  I don't think they even make bikini tops large enough for me.  Or supportive enough.  I cannot wear most of my shirts, meaning that I was reduced to go shopping and buy large and extra large tops just to fit over my rack.  The "XL" on the tag of my T-shirt is a corrosive acid that eats away at my inner-skinny-girl.  I keep trying to tell myself that it is only a temporary glitch and that they will go back to normal once I am done having kids. That, or I will have to go back to work to save up for the plastic surgery required to put them back where they belong.

The silver lining to all this: at least I won't be headed to the asylum anytime soon.