Ta ta, for now...

*Warning to any male readers I may have...this post is full of girl humor and references to "ta tas" so if you are sensitive you may want to have someone else read it for you and just give you the highlights.

Recently I got a new bra. I spent hours online and way too much money for the promise of perkiness. Finally, I got my package in the mail. It came from The Little Bra Company, who specializes in fitting "petite" women. It was wrapped in purple tissue paper with a fancy little tag that said, "Good things DO come in small packages."

I couldn't wait to try it on.

I ripped off my shirt right there in the kitchen.

Of course, Hillary, who could catch the scent of something "new" from across town, soon showed up to investigate.

She read the directions to me. Yes, there were directions.

HOW TO WEAR the little bra

step one
Put the little bra on. Lean over to allow your breasts to fall naturally into the bra cups.

step two
While leaning over, take your left hand to hold the bra in place (where the back wings–the strips of fabric, which extend from the outer base of the cups and secure in the back–meets the wire). Now, use your right hand to scoop your “little goods” to the center of the little bra. Repeat with the right cup.

step three
Adjust shoulder straps–tight enough so they don’t fall off your shoulders, but not so tight that they cut into your shoulders.

step four
You’ve got cleavage! Wear your favorite fashions with the little bra, or just wear the little bra!

Several tries and a few giggles later, I stood up straight...shoulders back...and looked down.

My grapes looked like....well...plums! There was the actual hint of a valley in the middle of my chest!

"Mom!" Hillary breathed reverently. "Look at you!"

I knew right then that I would have to be vigilant about this particular piece of apparel. If it were ever missing, I knew exactly whose room to start looking in...

Fast forward a few weeks to last night's ball game. As usual, I flew home from school, tutoring, and picking up Parker, to change clothes and freshen up for Hubby's first basketball game of districts. I had worn my old, non-magical bra to work because I like to save the good stuff for special occasions. And first graders don't really care about your ta-tas. One of their best qualities.

Anyway, I put on my favorite jeans and my new sparkly black t-shirt. I added high-heeled black boots and some dangly earrings and vavoom. If this seems like overkill to you, you must not be the "Coach's Wife". I was in such a hurry I completely forgot about my "special" bra until we were halfway there.

The kids and I were part-way through our third time of belting out "Sunday Morning" with Maroon 5 when it hit me. "Oh man..." I whined. "I should have worn my black bra!"

Hillary just looked at me.

I nearly drove off the road.

"You're WEARING it, aren't you!" I accused.

She smiled sheepishly.

"Well, I should make you trade with me when we get there." I pouted.

"I will." she piped. "I don't mind."

Fastforward again... 20 miles and one high school girl's bathroom later Hillary and I are both squished into the handicapped stall with our shirts around our necks and our purses perched precariously on the toilet paper holder. She rips off THE bra and stands exposed waiting for me to get mine off. She is laughing hysterically. I am fumbling and trying to do this gracefully without flattening my hair when my phone starts buzzing. I dig around in my coat pocket for it.

"Mom! You're gonna get that...NOW?"

"It might be important"

She is about to fall onto the toilet she is laughing so hard.

"Be quiet!" I hiss. "People are going to think we're doing something weird."

She is barely able to breathe as she squeaks, "Yeah, because THIS is not weird at ALL!"

I resist the urge to give her a swirly and we make the exchange just as one of the 27 teenage girls in the bathroom calls out, "WHAT are you guys DOING in there, Hillary?" Hillary, who is much quicker than I am, goes out the stall door, leaving me to follow the four-step-bra process on my own.

And I hear her laughingly describe to all her ballplayer friends how she had to switch bras with her mom! The girl is missing that gene that allows you to be embarrassed. It's a genetic disorder she inherited from her father.

Fortunately, the girls like her (and possibly me) enough to think it was cool and not crazy. And they all filed out of the bathroom giggly and girly.

I pulled back my shoulders, winked at my cleavage in the mirror, and said to my former flat self, "Ta ta for now...!"