I am a woman, of this I am certain. I live in a house with four boys, one of whom is my husband. Over the past 19 years, I have adapted to living in a house with only testosterone. I know never to speak of my period, never to leave tampons out on the counter. I have become well versed in sports and snack foods. I never liked shopping or make-up, so that has served me well. But every once in a while, I look around and realize that I am a stranger in my own home, and though I know I shouldn’t share certain things, they just come out of my mouth.
This morning, was one of those times.
For the past 24 hours, I have been wearing a blood pressure monitor. The last few times I have gone to the doctor, my pressure has been really high. After taking it a few times during the course of my appointment, it started to come down. In order to be sure that I have “white coat syndrome” and not actual high blood pressure, my lovely doctor told me to get this test done just to make sure everything is OK. I didn’tbother to tell my kids about it, because, truthfully, they don’t care. In a good way, of course.
I wentto the place to get the whole set up—the nurse puts on the monitor and shows me how to use it. The machine takes your blood pressure every 20 minutes, and if you want to shower or change clothes, you need to do it before the machine goes off again. You also need someone to help you put the cuff back on and loop the wire under your shirt… blah blah blah. Bottom line—as soon as this woman attached this contraption to me, I knew that for the next 24 hours, I would be wearing the same thing, because no one was going to help me get in or out of this thing. I get, “Eww, mom what are you wearing??” when I am in a bathing suit with a cover-up, so I knew no one was coming near me.
I went to bed fully clothed and called it a day. It was a long night. The machine kept waking me up and in the morning, I realized that the last time I slept with a bra on was when I was nursing. All those memories came flooding back. My boobs needed to be free and they were not happy with me. When I got out of bed in the morning, I realized that I had no one to share this complaint with. You can’t say the word “bra” to teenage boys (and my husband had left for work and, well, he is also a man and doesn’t really get it). But I needed to share. I knew the consequences.
“Boys, I was so uncomfortable last night. It has been a really long time since I slept with a bra on. I had to do it when I was nursing so I wouldn’t leak all over the place.” This was a bad move on my part.
“Uchh, Mom, really? We didn’t need to hear any of that.”
Yup, did not go over too well. Sharing was not caring; it was more of an experiment in futility. Apparently, it does not matter how often I listen to mind-numbing college basketball stats—it doesn’t get me anywhere with these guys.
But I continue to be hopeful that the more I do tell them, the more sensitive they might be towards their wives. And if that doesn’t work, it will be one more thing their wives can blame on me.
Though, I am quite certain that when they come home and need dinner, they will forget all about my crossing of the bra-boundaries and be more than happy to eat my food.
Boys, you gotta love ‘em!
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