After breastfeeding four of my five kids as infants (or not so infant-Dylan, I'm looking at you! That boy nursed until he was 2.5 years old!), I have come to one conclusion: these breasts reserve retirement. Or at least rejuvenation.
People who have met me in the last five or so years would be shocked with my following admission since I seem to have accidentally fallen in with a very nature-esque crowd. Those that have known me longer, say from the high school years, won't be fazed by this at all: I think I deserve a boob job. A nice 36-D boob job.
I already know how I want it done, with what "filling" (saline vs. silicone), and where I want the incision to be. I also know how I want to be put under (pills first please, then get the nite-nite juice going through IV). I know that I want a steady supply of Vicodin post-op. Well, I want a steady supply of Vicodin when I am post-work each day but I am quite "judicious" with how and when I take it. I know I am because that is the exact word, judicious, that my doctor used in complimenting me on my self-control. See, that should go on my "talent" list when I am trying to find my calling or vocation: likes to talk, has a good sense of humor, can survive most chaos & and is judicious with narcotic painkillers. At the very least, I will be writing that on my future resumes.
Back to the boobs...so I know all I need to know and have decided the big stuff. I just need to figure out which doctor (okay, so maybe this is a big item left to check off) and when. But there lies one little, tiny matter of funding the spa treatment for my breasts (you call it plastic surgery, I call it spa day). This issue has left me perplexed for quite awhile. Then, one day it came to me.
Whilst breastfeeding Baby Isaac, he decided to bite and pull at the same time. This is his idea of a practical joke. Well, hahaha, I missed the punchline since I was too busy detaching Jaws from my breast. My primal brain screamed, "Listen you little parasite, you don't bite the boob that feeds you! I'll make you pay...." What I really screamed was, "Ouch, f--k, damn it ISAAC, let the boob go!" I had my epiphany shortly after I decided to wean Isaac. It was so simple, so profound...how had I missed it? Forget college funds, that money is first going to my boob job. Eureka!
Alas...
The truth is, we haven't put any money away in the boob job jar yet (and how would one decorate a "Boob Job" money jar?) since we are happy to able to make monthly bills and put food on the table (I know, we live craaaazzyyy rich out here), but I now no longer feel guilt about not having college funds for the kids. And should they ever give me shit about it I'll ask them how much *they* have saved for my special fund. I already know that Skyler spends every penny he gets on hot Cheetos and Red Bull. I should tally up how many Red Bulls & hot Cheetos it takes to afford a boob job and wean him too. That money can go to a far better place...
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