I'm an H!

I figured since everyone already knows all about my uterus and ovaries, knowing my cup size wouldn't really be a drama!

I went bra shopping today. Desperately overdue. One of those things I always mean to get to but procrastinate about. Because let's face it, getting your top off in front of old ladies who are so polite about it really doesn't do much for me. I guess I'm funny like that.

Now I have large kadongas*. My ta-tas cast their own shadow and have their own gravitational force. Mr Cheeky and Mr Smoochy take great delight in slapping my funbags whenever I get dressed and Mr Cheeky has taken to pushing my cleavage together to 'make it wink'. Knowing this, I don't bother going to your run-of-the-mill clothing shop and head straight for the Big Boob Bra Boutique**

The lady of the BBBB (of course she was lovely) took one look at me and announced I'd be at least G. Possibly higher. Pfft. I politely told her that my current bra was clearly not supportive enough for my hooters because there is no way I could be a G. I was a G when pregnant with Mini-mi and no way in heck did I look like I had those footballs back, thank you very much. No way. No way at all.

She was nodding and grabbing the tape measure. She was wrong.

I'd be snarkily pleased about this if I was right but not only are my jugs a G, they have in fact graduated to an H.

H for Hot Damn Those Bazongas are HUGE!
H for Holy Crap I'm the Big Titty Queen!

I remember when I was 14 and flat as the bottom of a frypan. I remember staring at my Mum and older sister and desperately wanting to be big. To have bigger tits than all of them! Put together! Fuck. Careful what you wish for, hey?!



* Yes, I am trying to see how many nicknames for breasts I can include in this post. Humour me. It's Friday.

**this may not be its correct name

I'mma let you finish

If you've been living under a rock lately, you might have missed the hissy fit thrown recently by Kanye West at the MTV Music Awards. Seriously, I would expect better behaviour from Mr Cheeky and Mr Smoochy. If you missed it, here's a recap . .



Within days of Kanye's tanty, a new craze has hit the interwebs. It's called I'mma let you finish. Go have a peek - they are hilarious if you need brightening up.

So anyway, I decided to do my own . . .



and



I'll spare Mini-me from the mortification of being Kanye'd

I was brave

The fact is I'm not usually very brave when it comes to taking all three of the Triple J's out and about when I'm by myself. It scares me. For one, they outnumber me - never a good point to get to! Plus, the little ones have the road sense of a speedbump - ie happy to lie on the road and get smooshed by cars all day.

So I was a bit (ok, yes, I'm understating) worried about taking all three of them to a park near the beach. I thought about the potential hazards - the ocean, the road, falling from play equipment, running away in general in two to three different directions at a time. It was enough to make me shudder. A lot. If I could have wrapped them in safe, bubble wrapped, hazmat suits and sent them to play in a fenced dog park all day, I'd have been thrilled!

Having said that, they were WONDERFUL.

We had huge talks before leaving about following the rules. They knew if they went anywhere near the road or water, we would leave. If they ran away from me or refused to hold hands, we would leave. And they really, really didn't want to leave.

We got to meet up with some lovely friends and their children and we all (yep, even socially-introverted-to-start-with me!) had a fantastic time.

However, if you see a post on eb about any of the following activities, then that's us . . .

The kids ate hot chips. Oh the horror!
They all had lemonade icypoles! (Thanks again to M's other half for those!)
They played in the dirt and sand and loved it!
Mini-me spent a heap of time keeping an eye on her brothers so I could socialise (and yes, it cost me at the toy shop on the way home!)

And the best part of all . . .

The boys refused to use the toilets there. And really, after catching a whiff of stale urine when we opened the door, I didn't blame them. I personally hung on for dear life but given our 3-year-olds are toilet training that wouldn't do. So they peed. On a tree. In the park.

Lucky boys.

How to freak out an old man . . .

aka as Grumblebum. Seriously, that's what I call him.

He's my maternal grandfather. As a child I idolised him. As a teen I dropped him as a family member and he's never been able to crawl his way back. Highlights of his behavior include calling my family 'a pack of thieving bastards'. Noice. This was then backed up with several abusive phone calls to my mother, including a particularly nasty one on her 40th birthday. I sat there and watched as her own father made her cry. She wouldn't hang up the phone because he was her father. So she just sat there, crying, taking the abuse.

When I turned 18, it was my turn. I sat there stunned as he accused me of drinking, taking drugs and being a hooker. Happy Birthday indeed.

So needless to say, we don't get along. I don't trust him. I don't like him. I don't really give a toss about him. I am cordial and polite because I love my grandmother. But the mean part of me loves to make him uncomfortable.

Today he decided to ask about my upcoming operation. Given he's a man I am not close to, the last thing I wanted to discuss was my hysterectomy! Easiest way to get him to change the subject, and make him uncomfortable? Start talking alllll about it.

When I mentioned ovaries, he started to squirm. This was fun! I threw in the word uterus for good measure. The subject was promptly changed.

I did consider hitting him with an errant vagina or two, but I thought he might have a heart attack!

Catch up

I haven't posted much lately about the Triple J's, so here's a few snippets of late . . .

Conversation with Mr Cheeky today:

Mr C: *finds my mobile phone and picks it up* I need to call my friends Mummy
Me: Really? Which friends?
Mr C: Two friends Mummy *holds up two fingers*
Me: Which two friends?
Mr C: No, four friends *holds up four fingers*. No five *squishes his hand towards me*
Me: Who are you calling? What are their names?
Mr C: I don't know Mummy. Maybe just Santa.

It's going to be a long wait for Mr C until December 25th.

Mini-Me is going really well at the moment. She's enjoyed the last term at school and between her teacher and the Chaplain, has come a long way. She's looking forward to the holidays, as am I! She spent today making cards for Coparent and I, telling us how much she loves us. She then requested chocolate. Sentimental and a born negotiator - she's got talent!

And last but not least, Mr Smoochy. Who is becoming less smoochy as he becomes more and more the demanding toddler. Whist not as stubborn as his brother, he can still chuck an impressive tantrum as demonstrated this afternoon. Complete with leg stamping, arm flapping and head shaking drama. He did make up for it tonight though with a few smoochy kisses and squishy cuddles as he drifted off to sleep. He tried to be brave today and said he wanted a haircut and 'wouldn't cry this time Mummy'. Until he had the cape on and the clippers set to go -then he hyped up and we gave it up as a bad joke. Maybe the girly, long back style is in at kindy these days?!

I am not your friend . . .

I am your teacher.

There are differences. Big ones.

I don't sit around with you discussing your personal life nor do I share very much of mine. I don't generally discuss who is dating who, nor do I swap mobile ringtones with you. I don't have lunch with you. I teach you.

I push you when you need it, and give you space when required. I boost your self esteem and try to patch it when it's damaged. I explain the confusing, even if it takes a lot of effort. I break down the impossible and show you that you CAN.

I celebrate your successes and make sure you do too. I hunt for the good in you. Even if I have to dig really deep to find it. Then I gently bring it out to show you the diamond buried below that is you.

But I'm not your friend. I have my own life outside of you - even if I have to remind myself occasionally of that.

These are the reasons I feel so uncomfortable tonight that one of you has messaged me via Facebook, and another has requested I add you as a friend. I am not your friend.

Green eyes

Are you a jealous person?

I am.

I don't particularly think it's an attractive quality to possess yet it's in me. I tell myself that I won't be jealous and I'm an adult and should act like it. But I still get jealous.

Why should she make that comment?
What gives her the right?
Who does she think she is?
She has no idea what she's talking about!

*sigh*

I'm 37 now. Maybe when I'm in my 40's I'll figure out how to destroy the Green Eyed Monster.

Awwww

Firstly a thank you to the lovely ladies who commented on my last blog. Thank you!

I'm feeling much better about it all. I really just needed to purge, get over it, go back to school and do what I've been doing well - teach! I think perhaps I need to start looking for recognition from myself, from my results, from the behaviour and learning accomplished by my students, by their successful accomplishment of IEP goals, and from getting through some days without being hit, spat on, sworn at or abused.

I might have also been helped by a teeny present that arrived unexpectedly this afternoon . . .

Thank you Coparent. You always know how to cheer me up and make me smile :). The choccies are still wrapped and waiting for when you get home and the kids are in bed!

I have to blow my own

Successfully completed prac in a particular school area - check.
First year teacher - check
Teacher in a school in the same area - check.
Passed probation - check
GPA over 5.5 - check.

Nominated by my school for meeting all of the requirements for Beginning Teacher of the Year award? Nope.

Requested by my school that I attend to watch a uni colleague accept the award, who got a lower GPA than I did, plus only did one prac in the school area, plus requested help from me while we were at uni - check.

Bitter and pissed off Beginning Teacher here? Yep.

I won't blow my own trumpet, but I think I have genuinely done a good job this year. I've been complimented by my peers and direct supervisor. I've passed probation - easily. I've dealt with some really tough situations and survived. I've built relationships where it was thought impossible. I've helped other beginning teachers when they were struggling. I've signed up for extra curricular groups and helped plan curriculum that I won't actually be teaching next year.

I suppose it's too much to ask that I get nominated for an award that I'm qualified for. I didn't dream of winning. But to be at least included would have made me happy and I would have felt recognised. At the moment I'm feeling rather forgotten and it doesn't feel nice.

Operation Rip Out Uterus is booked

Dec 7th.

I'll miss the last week of school which is annoying me. It's the easiest week and I have to miss it!! Grrr.

Regardless, after Dec 7th - and a largish recovery period - I should have a decent reduction in the amount of pain I'm in. At the moment I'm in pain of varying degrees for aroun 2-3 weeks a month so I am looking forward to that going.

The Dr M clarified that he'll be taking the uterus, my right ovary, and both fallopian tubes (who needs them now? lol). He will cut away any and all endo he finds and may remove my appendix if it happens to be covered in endo.

I'll have more scars. I know I'll be unhappy about it once the post GA depression kicks in. I just have to remember I'm more than my belly and my kids love me regardless.

He's not expecting complications. He hasn't operated on me yet though. I think he's spoke to Dr Damn Nice though because he's insisted the op gets done two weeks before he goes on leave to make sure I have a good amount of recovery time to watch for problems.

Please let this one go as smoothly as the last!!