Bubba and I went to get some new jammies for Handsome after I picked her up from school. We love Kohl's and spent the better part of an hour looking at hair clips and scrunchies, bras, shirts, and socks and about thirty seconds on Handsome's jammies. As long as they are flame-resistant and his size, we're pretty flexible with that.

My mistake in the day was to try to find a bra that fits and enlisting Bubba's help. I told her my size, or what I approximate my size to be since I have not been measured in forever. I stopped wearing bras last summer when I was on the Cymbalta. It made me so sweaty, you'd think I was in a porno on the beach during a drought. The bras just rubbed and rubbed, and if it were a g-string, the rubbing would be fine. But it wasn't, so I started wearing sports bras that are a little more sweat-friendly.

I finally gave in and decided to buy bras after taking a photo of myself with just a normal t-shirt on and realizing that when my hair is frizzy (90% of the time), I don't wear make-up (90% of the time), I wear no jewelry (90% of the time, despite having a great collection from Premier), and when I wear my oversized t-shirts, I look a lot like a Pillsbury Doughgirl with smuggled deflated parachutes hanging from my neck, somewhere above the first huge roll and somewhere lower than my armpits.

So.....off we went to the lingerie department. Bubba starts looking at the pretty ones, while I resign myself to the industrial-built white or nude ones with names like "Just My Luck I Got Fat and My Boobs Never Gained An Ounce" and "These Don't Make You Look Better, Just Less Bouncy." She held up an attractive pink polka-dotted one and said, "You could wear this." I shook my head and said it wasn't my size, that it was for a smaller girl. She then insisted that she is a smaller girl and that I buy it for her. Then began the public discussion that she does not have boobies ("YES I DO!") and doesn't need a bra until she's older (she waits a moment and then declares that she is older, she wants the bra now).

I choose several that seem like they won't constrict me like a python and can reasonably accomdate my mosquito bites called breasts. We get into the dressing room and Bubba dictates how the changing session is going to go and which one she will allow me to buy. I try to distract her by giving her the phone to call Mower, and she tells him I don't look good in the bras. Thanks, Bubba. I am getting the "Come home, I don't want to be without you, basically so I can sit around and do nothing" vibe from Mower, so we look for a few more moments and I grab what I think will work.

I get them home and try them on again, just to be sure. Bubba sees me in one of them, calls me over as she stands on the bed, and she proceeds to pat my exposed chest and say it's not working. "What's not working?" "The bra, Mommy! It doesn't cover everything!" I couldn't stifle my giggles as I explained that is how real bras are, and feel bad that all she's seen me in is sports bras and tank tops so she had no clue bras are meant to show a little cleavage. Or, in my case, the wide expanse of pale white skin that eventually has a slight curve to it where the bras pushes up against the skin.

She mentions that she'll have boobies my size one day, and I try to explain that we don't know if she'll have small breasts or large breasts, or the huge flotation devices that could save four rows of passengers in a plane wreck water landing my mother carts around in an underwire. Bubba bounces on the bed now and says, "And when I grow up and I'm a Mommy, they'll be filled with milk!" I agree and say, "And you can squirt your husband in the eye with the milk!" Bubba puts her hands in a circle on her chest like she's about to pull a sword out of a stone and proceeds to "squirt" the room with milk. "Pssssss..."

I done good teaching her, huh? I think I just messed up her chances of ever just appreciating her breasts for being natural and normal, and instead she will think of them as a weapon of the fluid variety. Better than her brother right now, who thinks mine are toys and pats them when he wants to annoy the hell out of me. Typical male.