That white thing, bottom left? That’s my chest. Ma BEWB (a term I can’t take credit for). Everything ON TOP of ma bewb is the reason I haven’t been sleeping lately, the reason I have this massive headache, burning eyes and inability to write sensical sentences (see?). Apparently “sensical” isn’t a word. But IT SHOULD BE.

Don’t worry, the cat is mid yawn — not mid hiss or vampire bite — in the photo. He’s very friendly, as you know. But apparently very tired. Because apparently 22 hours of sleeping isn’t enough for him.

Apparently.

So, here’s the thing. Neither of my kids are sleeping — or, at least, not at the same time. It starts with the Rascal, at around 2am. He wakes up screaming for “MAMA! MAMA! MAMA! MAMA! MA-…” If I don’t go and get him, then a) his sister will wake up, and b) he will continue to scream until dawn. I. Exaggerateth. Not.

Sensical.

So, when I can’t take the screaming anymore (the acoustic sitch in my house does NOT help), I pick him up out of his crib — she wakes up anyway — and I plop him and his “Mooneh” and his “Bah” and his “Er-Er” all down on my bed with me. He settles right down, of course, impishly grinning ear to ear….

This would be all sweet and precious and cuddly if not for one itty bitty problemo.

He doesn’t exactly sleep WITH me — he sleeps ON me. As in, ON TOP of me. As in, SEE ABOVE PHOTO in which he was courteous enough, JUST THIS ONCE, to let Minden have a bewb.

Bewb.

Usually, he’s sprawled across my torso like a dead fish. A snoring dead fish. When I can’t breathe anymore, I attempt to shift positions, and he kvetches and repositions himself in the Snoring Dead Fish pose across my torso — again, but with a little more GUSTO.

Snoring Dead Fish.

By 4am the Monkey’s in our bed. I usually hear her thump thump thumping across the hall to our bed, and I attempt to “SIGHHH” underneath the solid mass of Rascal — and then she tells us she’s thirsty.

By 6am, the Rascal’s tugging my hand and yelling, “UP!”

I used to make fun of people who said “muchly.” But, I’m tired. So tired. So damn MUCHLY tired. Gusto.

As you can see over there in my sidebar, I’ve entered a big bloggy BEWB contest: BEWB FEST ’09. Go on, check all the gorj bewbs — ‘specially MINE (#44), keeping in mind that that is one heck of a MAGICAL camera angle and a DAMN good bra. Heh. Or not…. Yeah, go on and vote for me, please, and then come back and let me explain. MWAH!

Thank you….

Okay, so. Why would I — CHEATY!? — enter a contest like this. I, who enjoys feminist philosophy WHENEVER I GETS THE CHANCE (most recently at my latest Canada Moms Blog post on the WAHM/WOHM debate. I’m BIG PIMPIN’ again, eh?!). Some peeps have actually asked me WHY WHY WHY would I enter such a contest, and they’ve said they won’t vote or be involved whatsoever in such objectification and judgment of women because we get enough of it already in every-day life.

Okay. I get that.

But, let me tell you something. FIRST of all, this is ma girl LOTER we’re talking about — the FABULOUS Sarcastic Mom, Lotus Caroll. When Loter asked me to submit me bewbs, I was like, HELL YA, I JUST HOPE JOSH-O AND HOWARD STERN DON’T MIND IF I FLASH MA BEWBS ON THE INTERWEBS…. But, then The Loter told me this was a CLOTHED contest. Phew!

So anyway. I LOVE the idea of a bewb fest. As a self-proclaimed feminist (in my own way), I believe showing our bewbs when and if we want to, and especially in this kind of celebratory (really NOT judgmental) fashion, is a GOOD thing. Is a FEMINIST thing. I think back to when I was a teenager with larger-than-average bewbs. I was SO uncomfortable walking down the street. I’d always get hoots and whistles (both real and in my head) that made me want to go home and crawl under my bed. And I feel SORRY for that teen-aged Cheaty. I had a beautiful body, and I was ASHAMED of it.

I don’t want my daughter to have those feelings, that shame, about her own body.

These days, my body’s nowhere near what it once was. I was size ZERO back then; and now I’m size ****.  I had perfect B-cup bewbs. And now I’m — wait for it — size DD. When I was breastfeeing, though, I got as massive as size H! So, again, HELL YA!

But, I’ve been ashamed again of these ginormous DD knockers….

And what better way than a BEWB FEST like this to challenge my shame. To get me flaunting instead of hiding. FOR ONCE IN MY LIFE.

So, THANK YOU, LOTER! And thank you, GORGEOUSES, for helping me — as ALWAYS — beat my shame and go forth on my ongoing quest toward self- and bewb-acceptance.

P.S.: You can vote EVERY DAY! You know you want to….

Love!

xo Haley-O