The Tangerine and the Cantaloupe

Here in the ‘hood, we spend a lot of time at the pool. I’m certain this is because I have a weird form of adult mommy ADHD and can’t sit still for more than an hour or else I start talking in syllabic consonants (Ba. Da da. Ma bah. Da.), and has nothing to do with the nineteen-year-old Top-Gun-era-Val-Kilmer-lookalike-lifeguard (okay, FINE, seventeen.) (and also, don’t worry, honey, there’s proof in the nursery that I still think you’re hot). Dane and I spend a couple of afternoons a week at the pool, which satisfies my sadistic streak of seeing my postpartum tummy in a swimsuit and making our sweet baby very happy as he loves to splash water in my face and test the boundaries of the swim diaper.

Anyway, so one day this week that I can no longer extract from my crack mommy memory, Dane woke up super early from his afternoon nap and we decided to go for a viewing dip. Before we left (as is our routine), I offered Dane a little milky snack, and he took a few sips from one side and then was off to explore the magic that are plantation blinds. Because he ate so little (and also because I’m on a boycott of anything that starts with Med and ends with ela), I didn’t even consider pumping the other side, and then I (additionally) came up with the brilliant idea of going for a walk before the pool and changing into my suit when we arrived. So we sunscreen up and get all behatted and tennis-shoed and get the stroller packed up and run back in the house six times for all the stuff I forgot and finally the two of us go for a nice, long stroll around the neighborhood and end up at the pool. And sure enough, Val Kilmer opens the door for me and how lucky for me, there’s also a gaggle of popstar perfect 17-year-old girls there, plus at least two mommies who clearly live at Lifetime Fitness and/or have awesome plastic surgeons. Bitches.

So I head into the bathroom to change and get Dane changed, and I’m re-sunscreening and checking diapers and repacking the stroller and feeling pretty good about the fact that my tummy only rolls over my swimsuit when I breathe out, and just as I’m about to leave the bathroom I catch a glimpse of myself, and ohmygody’all there in the mirror were the most lopsided boobs since Tara Reid’s unfortunate experiment in plastic surgery. It was amazing I could even walk straight. So I jerked up on one strap and tugged down on the other and retied and wiggled and mashed and lifted and none of it really helped as my mutinous swollen right boob, who gave me zero advance notice of swelling up to the size of a cantaloupe (no tingling, no tightness, no nothing), forgot it wasn’t the star of the show and refused to readjust to match the left, and so I’m pacing the bathroom and weighing the damage I would inflict if any small children walked in on me hand expressing milk and the sanitary considerations of giving Dane a snack in the bathroom stall and finally I ended up sitting in the PUBLIC SHOWER attempting to express my boobs back to even and all I can think is how my stomach is already a couch cushion and my rear end looks like a deflating beach ball and, really, God, DOES MY CHEST ALSO NEED TO LOOK LIKE AN EFFING MIXED FRUIT BOWL? REALLY? And in response to myself, I said (direct quote here): Oh, f**k it, and stuffed those babies back into my island aqua J Crew spandex and rolled on out by Val Kilmer and the I’m a Slave for You era Brittney Spears-es and the Lifetime bitches and plopped my lopsided chest down into the pool with my baby, where he proceeded to splash water up my nose and giggle wildly at all my funny faces.

That’s right, Ice… Man. I am dangerous.
That’s right, mommyhood. I win.

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