Mom, mommy, mama, mother, mum... It all means the same thing. They all refer to the woman responsible for raising you.
Moms come in all shapes, sizes and forms. Most moms have given birth to their kids, but not all moms have to. Some women raise kids that aren't theirs, but still care for them as if they are. I'd call those women heroes. (Anyone willing to take on someone else's kid needs a medal!) Either way, it doesn't really matter how you became a mom, it still means the same thing.
If there's one thing I've learned in the last 6.5 months, it's that being a mom is seriously hard work! And what's really crazy is this is ONLY THE BEGINNING! It only gets harder from here folks. FML. (Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't take back a second of it and Elly is easily the best thing I've ever done in my life!)
If you look up what MOM means in the dictionary, you just simply get a woman who raises a child. I find that to be completely lame. So here's what I've got so far as to what being a MOM means:
Incubator
Milk maid/ dairy cow
Storyteller
Human paper towel
Sherpa
Pacifier
Photographer
Disciplinarian
Magician
Short-order cook
Hostage Negotiator
Baker
Guidance counselor
Taxi driver
Caregiver
Alarm clock
Telephone operator
Maid
Zookeeper
Mediator
Endless ATM/ Money tree
White noise
Fashion consultant
Listener
Mathematician
Seamstress
Fortune teller
Diaper gene
Teacher
Firefighter
Coach
Party planner
Nag
Confidant
Doctor
Back scratcher
Hair stylist
Personal assistant/ Scheduler
Instruction manual
Travel guide
Toy/ jungle gym
Scout leader
It reads more like a job listing than a definition. I think it's because ultimately, mom's really have to do it ALL. Not that dad isn't there to help here and there, but when your kid is crying in the middle of the night, dad isn't likely to hear a thing (or at least Stoofy doesn't!). But mom, she doesn't sleep a wink, so she can be there in a flash if needed.
About Me
- Betty Bakedgood
- I'm a working single mom who loves to write in my spare time... so bare with me when there's a lull in the blogging. It means I'm out enjoying my daughter, Elly's, crazy antics!
Showing posts with label Dairy Queen. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dairy Queen. Show all posts
Friday, September 16, 2011
Monday, September 12, 2011
BOOBS!
I couldn't come up with anything catchier than the word BOOBS for a blog all about boobs. Because honestly, boobs are generally pretty catchy all on their own. Or at least mine are. (They catch plenty of food I accidentally drop, which in turn leaves a stain. They're the reason I need new clothes... that and my little drool monster.)
To say I have big boobs would be to say Niagara Falls is just a waterfall. It's a bit of an understatement... considering they're in your face. I've been blessed with the bosom, but I wouldn't consider it a happy blessing.
And it seems the older I get, the bigger they get. I wish it was like when you're a kid and every year your relatives send you a check for how old you turned that year. (By the way, I'll be anxiously waiting at my mailbox this November for a box full of $29 checks people!) Instead, with each birthday candle I get an extra ounce of flesh hanging off my chest. Awesome. I'm worried that by the time I hit retirement, my boobs will be collecting a Social Security payment all of their own.
And having a baby hasn't made the problem any better. In fact, it's only made it worse. Because I am the Dairy Queen. And when the Dairy Queen is full, the girls have increased a whole cup-size. I don't even know how that is freakin' possible? But it is!
When I was pregnant, I grew huge. And I got worried that when the milk came in it would be unbearable. I was worried I wouldn't even know if the milk had come in yet because how would I be able to tell? A very wise friend of mine explained to me that if you have to ask, then it hasn't come in yet... because YOU'LL KNOW IT! She said it's like you all of a sudden have bocce balls.
HAHAHAHAHAHA! Bocce balls. As if! Let's try bowling balls!
At least that's what they feel like! Don't even get me started on the dangers of running before pumping milk. Do you remember those old Dolly Parton jokes you told (and barely understood) in elementary school about how when she comes back from a jog she's got two black eyes? Yeah, there's some truth in that fucking joke. And it's painfully not that funny.
Another huge problem (pun intended) with big boobs is finding clothes that fit. Over the weekend Abby and I went shopping for grown-up clothes for her new job and my job interview (I aced it by the way!). And I had two great dressed that I tried on and they fit perfectly... except in the chesticle region.
And as I look in the mirror and realize there's nothing I could do but laugh, I shout across the dressing room door to Abby and say, "The dress looks good, but my boobs are too big for it!"
To which she replies, "That's something you'll never hear me say in my life."
Because as much as it sucks to have jumbotrons, it can't possibly be any better to have barely there's either. Maybe she and I can find a 2 for 1/ bosom buddy special at the plastic surgeons?
To say I have big boobs would be to say Niagara Falls is just a waterfall. It's a bit of an understatement... considering they're in your face. I've been blessed with the bosom, but I wouldn't consider it a happy blessing.
And it seems the older I get, the bigger they get. I wish it was like when you're a kid and every year your relatives send you a check for how old you turned that year. (By the way, I'll be anxiously waiting at my mailbox this November for a box full of $29 checks people!) Instead, with each birthday candle I get an extra ounce of flesh hanging off my chest. Awesome. I'm worried that by the time I hit retirement, my boobs will be collecting a Social Security payment all of their own.
And having a baby hasn't made the problem any better. In fact, it's only made it worse. Because I am the Dairy Queen. And when the Dairy Queen is full, the girls have increased a whole cup-size. I don't even know how that is freakin' possible? But it is!
When I was pregnant, I grew huge. And I got worried that when the milk came in it would be unbearable. I was worried I wouldn't even know if the milk had come in yet because how would I be able to tell? A very wise friend of mine explained to me that if you have to ask, then it hasn't come in yet... because YOU'LL KNOW IT! She said it's like you all of a sudden have bocce balls.
HAHAHAHAHAHA! Bocce balls. As if! Let's try bowling balls!
At least that's what they feel like! Don't even get me started on the dangers of running before pumping milk. Do you remember those old Dolly Parton jokes you told (and barely understood) in elementary school about how when she comes back from a jog she's got two black eyes? Yeah, there's some truth in that fucking joke. And it's painfully not that funny.
Another huge problem (pun intended) with big boobs is finding clothes that fit. Over the weekend Abby and I went shopping for grown-up clothes for her new job and my job interview (I aced it by the way!). And I had two great dressed that I tried on and they fit perfectly... except in the chesticle region.
And as I look in the mirror and realize there's nothing I could do but laugh, I shout across the dressing room door to Abby and say, "The dress looks good, but my boobs are too big for it!"
To which she replies, "That's something you'll never hear me say in my life."
Because as much as it sucks to have jumbotrons, it can't possibly be any better to have barely there's either. Maybe she and I can find a 2 for 1/ bosom buddy special at the plastic surgeons?
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