There’s a scene in an early season of Mad Men that shows the beautifully bosomed Joan P. Harris nee Holloway (played by the gorgeous Christina Hendricks) rubbing her shoulder under her bra strap at the end of a long day – presumably to illustrate the strain and weight of the day. The reality is the biggest weight she’s carried that day is her ample bosom. And those thin elastic straps have been cutting into her shoulder for hours.

It’s a reality I am all too familiar with.

There’s not a big-boobed woman who doesn’t relish the thought of removing the restraints when in the privacy of her home (when wandering around looking like a tribal woman doesn’t impact ones social standing). While support is desperately needed it’s bloody hard to find one that doesn’t make you feel like you’re trussed up like a Christmas turkey for the day.

My bras are the bane of my clothing experience. I am constantly searching for the ‘perfect fit’, the soft and simple, unpadded and comfortable bra. I’m a fuss free type of gal – I have no need of lace and appliqué and animal print (!). I’m a lover of Bonds. Alas my love is unrequited, as they don’t like big bosoms!

I also don’t see myself as an overly big woman. At a healthy weight I’m a generous size 14, which makes me think about women who are larger than me. There’s a whole army of us reaching to unbuckle and unload at the earliest opportunity!

I lost count of the number of underwear stores I’ve walked into and straight out again for lack of options. In my search for practical, comfortable, soft and well-fitting feeding bras the sexy marketing that has accompanied many of them has put me off. When did ‘sexy’ and ‘breast-feeding’ become a thing?

But these challenges that I had with my boobs before I had a baby were nothing compared to the weight I would bear while trying to keep that child alive at my breast!. Aside from the whole raising-a-child-and-not-breaking-it thing, I’d have to say my biggest concern day-to-day is keeping physically comfortable while, just like Baby in Dirty Dancing, I carry a watermelon or two strapped to my chest.

Hot Milk. “Supporting Breast Feeding women. Everywhere.” Including, it would seem, in my best evening attire, wearing diamonds, while I buy orange juice. Yes, that’s just the look I cultivate when grocery shopping.

Did you know there is a whole maternity bra range called Hot Milk? I kid you not. I mean I’m sure their bras are lovely and all but, who the fuck thinks of these names and marketing strategies? Truly bizarre. I’m sorry but I didn’t feel sexy, hot or even remotely amorous when it came to feeding my baby. (If you did…I’d love to hear about it, honestly…fire away in the comments)

A friend and fellow big-bosom buddy put me onto an underwear consultant. She raved about their ‘miracle bra’. Because researching and trying on bras is my favourite past time* I decided to give it a go. Sure enough she fitted me, and my breast-feeding boobs, comfortably into her largest size. Her. Largest. Size. What? Like I said, I’m not the biggest girl I know, so even though I was accommodated I couldn’t help but think of my bigger sisters.

So if a smart bra manufacturer would like to contact me about getting an edge in the untapped no fuss, big bra market feel free to hook a sister up! We’ll make a motza!

And then there’s using my boobs for the purpose for which they were intended.

A dear, tiny-chested friend of mine who was physically unable to breastfeed her babies (who are now perfectly healthy young humans, I hasten to add) commented during my pregnancy that I’d have no such dilemmas. I was clearly built to have a tiny creature suckle at my breast.

Yes, well, let me paint a picture for anyone that may believe that one plus one equals boobs café.

It was day three of my hospital stay after giving birth that both baby and I cracked up. Together. At the same time. One of the 423 helpful midwives had a firm grip on my baby’s head which, at that stage was no bigger than an orange, and was firmly pushing it towards my watermelon. Much like a scene from a science fiction movie where a mammoth asteroid hurtles at an alarming pace towards the tiny speck called Earth, destroying all in its path.

Imagine the horror that poor three-day-old human must have felt.

“Come on love, latch, there’s a good girl,” says Helpful Midwife to my baby.
“They have a natural inclination for the breast, don’t worry, she’ll get it,” says Helpful Midwife to me.

This routine carried on for a good 30 minutes, mostly because the Helpful Midwife had more patience than me or my baby, who responded quite simply with “Whhhaaaaaaa” complete with real tears on her tiny perfect face. Translation: “Back the fuck up, I’m scared!”

I was having none of it. And given my lack of sleep and general exhausted state, told the Helpful Midwife rather pointedly. She backed away slowly and my baby and I consoled ourselves. We muddled on for the rest of our stay, which included me having to sign a form requesting formula which basically devolved the hospital of any responsibility of the potential heinous effects that formula was surely to cause my newborn. Seriously! Could they make formula out to be any more evil do you think? Do not get me started.

…dining at Boobs Cafe

So it turned out my first-born wasn’t so enamoured with her watermelon-sized café. In fact she continued to get frequently upset at the counter until we both figured out that she’s perfectly content to take her coffee order lying down.

Yes. Both of us. Lying down.
On a bed. To feed.
Every. Single. Time.

A tad limiting for any trips outside of the home (bedding department of Myer not withstanding).

I found myself watching other mothers feed their babies at their average sized bosoms and smiled wistfully thinking how lovely it must be to be able to feed your baby peacefully, anywhere, anytime, sitting, standing, walking, knocking back vodka shots. Instead, when I’m wasn’t lying down feeding (and trying not to nap, which is 100% impossible when you’ve had next to no sleep), I was pumping feeds so we could at least get out of the house together.

Now I’m sure that I simply hit on the unfortunate combo of large boobs and a very (very) particular baby. And before the chorus of helpful advice starts, let me assure you, we tried it all from nipple shields and lactation consultants (three) to pillows, no pillows, football hold, sitting straight, rocking, dark rooms, noisy rooms, TV, no TV, the occasional vodka shot etc.

My baby (who is now 4) and I managed to muddle through and both became reasonably settled into our feeding set up and in the end I honestly felt blessed that I could choose to breast feed my baby at all. Even if our shopping trips were limited to the bedding department of Myer.

*it’s not.

SUPPORT UPLIFT BRAS

If, like me, you have amassed an extraordinary amount of over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders and they are now just taking up space in your drawer then please consider this wonderfully awesome cause.

For women in disadvantaged communities a bra is often unobtainable or unaffordable. Uplift Bras collects new and second hand bras and sends them wherever they have requests.

Give your unloved bras to some sisters who will truly appreciate them.

When I was a child all I wanted was long hair. Unfortunately all my mother wanted was to save on hairdresser bills and cut my hair (and my sisters) herself. The result was the classic 1977 bowl cut. Exhibit A, your honour (pic at right).

After bath time my sister and I used to pretend to have long hair by wrapping a towel around our head and swishing it to and fro as if we had a mane. I would also lust after those synthetic flaxen locks on the heads of our Barbies…and on more then one occasion hacked into their long hair out of spite. I wasn’t yet old enough to realise that Barbie’s skinny waist, tippy toe long legs and pert boobs were also a synthetic I could never achieve.

I lived with bowl cuts until about 1982 when, after a particularly brutal cut, no doubt inspired by the latest nit infestation at school, I refused to let it be cut anymore. Not even the fringe. I was 10 goddamn it and I wanted long hair. When mum finally acquiesced and agreed to let us grow our hair the result was…ummm…hair. I was reluctant to go near a hairdresser in case they chopped it back to the bowl. So it just grew and grew and grew.

My daughter was bald for the first two years of her life and she was adorable. But as soon as she had anything a clip would cling to she wanted hair. Now, at four, I don’t want to cut it because I don’t want her faced with the same croppy chop I had at her age.

Hair Crimes Through the Ages

I was reminded of all this childhood hair angst when I saw a Facebook post from a former colleague whose 11-year-old daughter has been growing her hair for 3.5 years. THREE AND A HALF YEARS?! That’s a long bloody time in kid land. Sophia has been on mission. Not unlike my mission to never see the inside of a hair salon, except that Sophia’s motives are a tad more admirable.

She’s donating her hair to kids who might want it.

Alopecia Areata is a condition where hair is lost from some or all areas of the body. It often results in a few random bald spots and can be temporary or permanent. There is no cure.

When Sophie heard about Alopecia Areata she decided that she wanted to donate her hair to the Australia Alopecia Areata Foundation Inc (AAAF). All hair donated to AAAF is sent wig makers who specialize in making hairpieces for medical purposes. They also run the Wigs For Kids program, which provides financial grants to help families with the costs of wigs. 

Sophia has gorgeous thick, long hair and has been waiting for it to be long enough so she can still do a ballet bun when she cuts the bulk of it off. Smart kid!

Her haircut is booked for 2 days before Christmas and she’s raising funds for the cause. What a little legend.

I loved her mission so much that I wanted to tell you all about it. If you had ‘mum cuts’ back in the day perhaps consider throwing a few dollars in Sophie’s Go Fund Me kitty.

You can do that here: https://aaafhairdonation.gofundraise.com.au/page/MegumiMiki

…and while you’re at it show us your bowl cut. I’ve shown you mine, now you show me yours 😉

The “Pretty-Much-Annual Cowen date night” – a night where mummy and daddy get to adult for a few hours with cocktails and canapés (my favourite kind of dinner, if I’m honest) comes around infrequently (as the name suggests). Much to my husband’s disappointment I often suggest a stage show…and because I organise it all…we usually go to a stage show. The last stage show we went to was one I’d wanted to see for about five years. And one I secretly hoped would transport me back to the 80s when I was a teenager and life was simpler and there was more rock and roll and no Justin Bieber and no Facebook status.

I’ve always been a tragic nostalgic. I’ve been reminiscing since I was 16, which is clearly decades before I had anything to actually reminisce about. Anyway, I chose to see this show because it promised to take me back to 1984. In a decade where I was going to grow up and marry Simon LeBon. When I was happy, angry, frustrated and liberated all at the same time. Teenage angst anyone?

What I really wanted. What I really, really wanted was to be at a concert with the real deal. Where I knew all the words to all the songs and the man behind the microphone was going to live forever. Except he didn’t. And neither did my teenage years.

If you’re a child of the 70s or 80s there’s a good chance that Queen, David Bowie and various new romantics shaped your music taste (unless of course you were punk, then that’s a whole other Sid and Nancy kind of conversation).

I sat through two and a half hours of the very witty, often funny and terribly cheesy Ben Elton’s We Will Rock You, with a talented cast who, for the most part, had pretty good stage presence as they sang their way through a handful of Queen’s back catalogue.

Sure, it was entertaining and I was comfortably numb with more than a few glasses of Shiraz and post dinner cocktails, but it didn’t satisfy me. Not by a long shot. Honestly, all it did was make me crave the real thing. Which made me sad because I can’t have that anymore. The unique and divine Freddie Mercury is gone. And this stage show, while trying to emulate the music he created with Bryan May, just reminded me of that.

So while I was wandering down Morose Avenue I realized that what I seek these days is authenticity. I don’t want no tribute bands. I don’t want no copycats. I want the real thing. Like those Coca-Cola ads of the 70s, where choirs of happy people toast to the real thing – Coke – as opposed to any other market imitation of their fizzy pop.

When I was holidaying in Phuket last month my cravings for the ‘real thing’ intensified. I’d booked a fabulous all-expenses-and-minimal-effort paid trip with a bunch of sensational women. All of whom had the same desire as me to escape their humdrum and recharge the mummy batteries. (You can read about it here, here and here.) It was a great trip and I was lucky to be able to take it (alone) but if I’m honest (and why not, this is my blog, so fuck it!)…it just wasn’t the real deal. I came to the sudden realisation that me and hotels are uncomfortable bedfellows. I’d spent the better part of a day travelling 7,000 kilometres on a quest for peace and tranquility and, on my first morning, realised I’d walked right into the cacophony that is hotel resort life.

On my first morning I opened my balcony doors hoping for a peaceful birdsong and was greeted with lightweight covers of David Bowie, Macy Gray and other recognisable songs covered by unrecognisable session musicians for the purpose of torturing fans of the real thing. The music was coming from the hotel restaurant which my room happened to overlook (lucky me) as they were setting up for service. So that music was ably backed by a choir of clanging plates and clinking glasses…and the local call to prayer (which I kinda like). Now, I don’t mind covers and I know that someone has to have the room near the restaurant and that the restaurant has to set up so we can indulge in the all-you-can-eat-buffet …but at 5am on my first day in ‘paradise’ I was in no fit state to cope or reason with the holiday cards that I was dealt.

So I closed my balcony door and went to boil the kettle and make a cup of tea…and that’s when I fell apart. There was no milk. Just powdered creamer. I quite literally started to weep over non-existent spilt milk. It was all too much. I was travel weary, craving peace and quiet and a brew of my own making with no interruptions that I’d get to drink while it was still hot and…I just couldn’t have it. Sure I could have called room service but honestly I just didn’t want to deal with anyone or anything while I had my wee meltdown over imitations.

So the moral of my story is that the simple things in life are often the most authentic …and so very easily found close to home.  I don’t want a soundtrack of imitations. Or creamer for my tea. I want the real thing. I want a quiet cup of tea. At home. When everyone else is on holiday!

(oh and I want Freddie Mercury and George Michael back amongst us…ok? thanks. bye)

Part 3 of the Mama’s Escape with Woog diary. Part 1 is here, Part 2 is here.

The best thing about being on holidays with a bunch of mothers is being on holiday with a bunch of mothers. Like a seasoned gambler they know when to hold them, they know when to fold them and they know when to walk away.

Over cocktails, mocktails and wine we’ve discussed health, boobs, family, boys, toys, jobs and most importantly left each other alone when it mattered. Having outgrown the Contiki tour decades ago (which was actually never my thing, truth-be-told) solo time was primo on this holiday. Each and every one of the women I’ve shared this week with have had their own holiday in their own way and yet, have rallied and supported each other when the need arose.

In my case, that was the soft knock at my door yesterday morning with a handful of the cold and flu drugs I’d neglected to pack for myself. Then after lunch I was offered more of the same, but from a different source…being the over-the-counter drug junkie that I am I gleefully accepted anything that my dealers proffered…it would seem rude not to. Alas not even the deepest, hardest hit of pseudoephedrine would stop the strep throat that woke me at 4am this morning. So much for the (also available over the counter) Valium knocking me out for 12 hours.

My type of souvenir …alas

I’ve had strep throat before. Anyone who has had it knows it’s hideous. Swallowing razor blades that have first been heated in the hell of hades is the only way I can describe it. So I knew it wasn’t going to get better without serious intervention. Rather than wait out the next two nights and risk losing my mind in pain during the overnight flight ahead I did what every mother does. I asked Dr Google.

To my utter delight I discovered that, like Valium, antibiotics were readily available over the counter here. Hallelujah. May the Lord Open. Imagine that, being responsible for your own medical treatment with no expensive middle man just validating what you already know because, you know…you’re an adult and you’ve been around this block a few times, but sure, go ahead and give me permission to treat my own body!…Sorry, where was I. Oh yes…pharmacy. So off I trotted for my third visit to the pharmacy over the road. I guess some people shop for rip off Gucci in Thailand I shop for pharmaceuticals!

I was determined to get those antibiotics into my system ASAP so as not to delay my increasing discomfort. Which is the exact opposite to how I approached selecting the bathers we were each generously gifted by Sequins and Sands in preparation for this escape.

Shopping for bathers is almost as painful as this damn strep throat. Almost. It sucks the life right out of me. So even though the offer meant shopping online only (with personal advice and assistance should we need it) I still delayed. And delayed. And delayed.

When I finally put some time aside to decide on my purchase I started scanning through the colourful, flowing options thinking I’ll make the most of this gift and will not buy black. I always buy black. It’s the law in Melbourne. I can buy black anytime. The Sequins and Sands website is full of colour and women wearing colour and looking like the magnificent creatures they are (you should totes check it out!). I marked up a few options and then life got in the way (and by “life” I mean child and requests for food). So I book marked it all to come back to. Two days later I knew I had to order my bathers or I’d miss out on my gift – and that would be ungrateful. And I knew that everyone else would be sporting new togs and I wanted in on that club!

I returned to my list and in my haste my resolve to be fearless went out the window as I chose what I always choose. A black. One piece. Just couldn’t bring myself to buy two colourful pieces. Even when it was free I still chose something predictable. Why? Bloody habit. And fear. What if I didn’t like it? What if I couldn’t wear it when the holiday came around and then I’d have to explain to everyone why and that would seem ungrateful – particularly since it was a gift.

Not me…OBVIOUSLY…but it coulda been

So my black one piece arrived and it IS fabulous and it IS comfortable and it IS supportive in the right places but you know what? I don’t like it that much. It’s just too much fabric sucking me in and covering me up when I actually want to be wearing less in this heat. I knew I’d want less but still I chose more because I wanted to hide. I’m a bit disappointed with myself; I should have taken a risk and selected a bikini. Not even a tankini. No. A fucking BI-KI-NI. Obviously I’d need some scaffolding for the girls because I’m no Bond Girl but still…two pieces. This was the perfect holiday to take that risk. And I blew it.

My husband has been telling me to buy a bikini for years! Bless him. He says I look better less covered up (he would, right?). But at forty fucking five I’m still coming to terms with full exposure. So while I’m sucking back my antibiotics and swearing like a sailor at the bad holiday ju-ju that’s come my way I’ll be reflecting on what’s holding me back. I think it’s time this mama learned how to play the cards she’s been dealt and drop the fucking poker face.