47 Ways To Enjoy Your Mum

I recently saw a piece on the internet entitled ’47 Ways To Enjoy Your Kids’. I can think of 47 ways I would like to tell the writer of that article how to shove it. I already know the best single way to enjoy my kids. To go on holidays without them.

So you don’t have to read the article and feel crap about yourself because apparently feeding, clothing, educating, cleaning and engaging with your children doesn’t mean shit unless you’re allowing them to paint your fences with sample pots of house paint and having family slumber parties in the living room every weekend (puh-lease!), I thought in retaliation I would write my own list entitled ’47 Ways To Enjoy Your Mum’. Here’s how that turned out.

1. When you’re getting your hair done, just sit there and let me do it. Every time you pull away and screech like a banshee, you’re just prolonging the agony. And P.S., if you brushed your own hair once in a while it wouldn’t be so knotty.

2. Eat your dinner. You like it. You’ve had it before. It wasn’t ‘yucky’ or ‘funny’ or ‘stingy’ last time. Just eat it.

3. Wipe your bum, flush the toilet, wash your hands. EVERY. TIME. These are not optional steps, ever, and it drives me mental that I’m still reminding you 2 years after you were toilet trained. And washing your hands means using actual soap, not just dangling your hands under running water.

4. Stop putting my phone on airplane mode. My phone is not your property, regardless of what you might think. I want it back. And by the way – I deleted all the pictures you took of your feet.

5. If you could drag yourself away from the episode of Sofia the First you’ve already seen 12 times this week to say hello to your grandparents on the phone, that would be delightful. If you actually willingly sat still enough to have an extended conversation with them on Skype, I would buy you a pony.

6. Put Barbie and her bits and pieces away when you’ve finished playing with them. If I impale my feet on another of those tiny, incredibly painful stilettos, I will not be held responsible for what happens to Barbie. Or you.

7. Remember those guinea pigs? The ones you hand picked and held for hours and fed and stroked and loved? You haven’t been near them for 3 weeks. Sort it out.

8. My car is not a mobile shoe cupboard. When you get out of the car, please take your shoes with you. And your toys, craft, drink bottles and crayons while you’re at it. The car looks like we live in it. And it looks like we’re hoarders.

9. I see you picking your nose. You’re doing it right in front of me. At least get a tissue. And no, ‘I’m not doing it, my finger is doing it without telling me!’ is not an acceptable excuse.

10. You know our once beautiful microsuede couch? It’s not a baby wipe. Or a blank canvas. So keep your grubby mitts, and your textas, away from it.

11. Don’t screw up your face and complain that I’m using an angry voice when I ask you to do something. I didn’t have an angry voice the first 16 times I asked you to do it.

12 – 47 Just. Go. Back. To. Sleep.

I know that no kids – or parents – are perfect. We’ve all got our own unique speed bumps along the way that test us. And I love my sometimes snotty, sticky, shoeless, finicky, evasive, messy kids.

Especially when I’m on holidays without them.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

My daughter Mairéad tells it like it is. Always has.

One night as we were eating a casserole I’d made, I said (mostly to myself) as I tasted it ‘This dish is just missing something….’ ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘Yumminess.’

Then there was the time we were at the supermarket and she pointed at quite a large lady in another checkout aisle and said ‘Look, Mum! That lady has a baby in her tummy!’ The lady in question was easily in her mid-sixties, and the only thing she had in her tummy by the look of it was cake. Mortifying.

And I mustn’t forget to mention the time when she spotted a man with a completely bald head and she pointed dramatically and shouted across the Murray Street Mall ‘Look, Mum! That man with no hair doesn’t eat salad!’ I have to take some (all) responsibility for that one. Telling Mairead her hair would fall out if she didn’t eat greens was the only way I could get her to eat lettuce. Don’t judge, it works. Well, it did up until that incident, anyway.

There was the time she lost her mind in a giant maze, stamped her foot and screamed ‘Mum! Why did you bring me to this boring place?!’ The time we were at a friend’s place for dinner and she sternly told everyone at the table ‘Less talking, more eating.’ The time she pointed at the lady in the full burqa on a plane and loudly told everyone to watch out for the Lego ninja.

She’s a shocker.

This week before her swimming lesson, I let Mairéad go into the pool by herself. My little one Maeve was getting over a cold, so I kept her in the pram next to me by the side of the pool, and let Mairéad make her own fun (within a safe distance, of course) in the water before her class started.

I watched my girl play in the water, happy and content and I thought about how she was growing up. Then I caught her watching another boy intently, a little way away from her. This boy was probably in his mid-teens, and was plainly mentally and physically disabled. He was making big splashes in the water, and shouting sounds and stamping and grinning and having fun. Mairéad couldn’t take her eyes off him. I watched her, watching him, wondering what was going on in her head. Her little face softened, and she wore an expression of maternal sweetness, the kind of face she usually reserves for tiny animals and sleeping babies. My heart swelled with pride at her obvious compassion and sensitivity. Then she stood up in the water up to her waist, cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted across the pool at top of her voice ‘HEY MUM! THAT BOY GIVES ME THE CREEPS!’

‘Be nice’ I tried to instruct her quietly, wishing the concrete floor of the pool would crack open and swallow me up. ‘Mum, he keeps SPLASHING! Why is he DOING that?’ I said ‘Maybe it’s a game he’s playing? Why don’t you go and see if you can play it too?’ ‘Oh YUCK!’ she screamed ‘NO WAY!’

‘Come here, now!’ I hissed at her. She came out reluctantly while I frantically tried to work out how to explain disability and acceptance on the spot to a 5 year old. ‘Listen,’ I began, ‘that boy is…. (different? I didn’t want to say different….it seemed too negative – she already knew he was different and didn’t like it….um….weird? No…um….) special. Listen, you know how Pa was born with a wonky finger and the nail grew funny? Well, when that boy was born, I think maybe he had a wonky brain, and that made him grow up a little funny.’ She’s not buying it at all. ‘But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t talk to him or play with him if you both want to. He might like to make a new friend.’ She’s still looking sceptical. ‘And it’s definitely not nice to shout out things like you think he’s creepy – would you like it if someone shouted out about you?’ ‘No, that would hurt my feelings,’ she admitted. ‘Ok, Mum.’

So she got back in the water. She didn’t try to talk to the boy, or make friends with him, but she also didn’t just stand there pointing with her nose screwed up. She just let him get on with his splashing.

I’m going to go back early next week and get in the water myself with both the girls and hope that the boy and his carer are there again and maybe we can introduce ourselves. Maybe we can all play the splashing game.

I’ll have to get new bathers though with an underwire, though. Last time Mairéad saw me in my old ones she told me my boobs looked too long.

My daughter Mairéad tells it like it is. Always has.

Very Scary Katy Perry (part 2)

For those of you who have been playing along at home, you might remember that I took my 5 year old Mairead to the Katy Perry show last Friday night. Here now, for your reading pleasure is a timeline of how that day went. From start to finish…

Friday, 7th November, 2014.

5.10am Mairead comes screaming into our bedroom screaming ‘IT’S KATY PERRY DAY!‘
5.11am Mairead is sent back to bed
5.17am Mairead screams from her bedroom ‘IS IT TIME TO GET UP YET?’
5.18am Baby wakes up
5.19am I hide under the doona and make various elaborate mental deals with the devil in return for making the kids go back to sleep for 2 hours.
5.20am Everyone’s up
8.20am Kids fed, watered, dressed, brushed. School bag packed. ‘Roar’ video been played on repeat on my phone at least 30 times.
8.30am Drop her at school
8.45am Back at home. Put finishing touched on Mairead’s Katy Perry costume. Boring house stuff (you don’t want to hear about that, believe me).
2.30pm Collect Mairead from school. Mairead announces to all and sundry that she’s going to Katy Perry. Numerous kids ask their mothers why they aren’t going to Katy Perry. Get dirty looks from other mothers.
2.40pm In car. Mairead realises she has left her gluing creations at school on the drying rack. I tell her if we go back to school we’ll be late for Katy Perry. Mairead accepts this. WIN!!
2.45pm Home. Mairead has a shower and puts on her costume and tells me she’s ready to go.
5.30pm We actually go.
6.00pm Think I’m being clever by parking away from the arena in a carpark on Murray Street. Give myself mental pat on the back.
6.10pm Car parked. It’s freezing. Mairead is wearing a leopard print halter top and a fake grass skirt (like Katy Perry in the Roar video, but not skanky). She won’t wear a cardigan because Katy Perry didn’t wear a cardigan.
6.11pm We walk down to Perth Arena. At least four different carloads of people beep at us and sing ‘Roa-or-or-or-o-o-o-o-ar’ at us. Mairead loves herself sick.
6.15pm Arrive at Perth Arena. A little girl looks at Mairead’s costume and says to her mum ‘Why didn’t I get that?’ A big ladyl looks at Mairead’s costume and says to her friend ‘Why didn’t we do that?’
6.20pm See my mates Heidi and Woody from 92.9fm doing an outside broadcast. Woody says on live radio to Mairead ‘Well, you’re a little live wire, are you excited about Katy Perry?’ Mairead squeaks ‘Hello!’ and runs away. Great radio.
6.25pm We start to line up at the merchandise stand.
6.35pm Still lining up at the merch stand.
6.55pm Still lining up.
7.10pm Get to the front of the merch stand. Mairead doesn’t know what she wants.
7.12pm The t-shirt Mairead wants is $60.
7.13pm Regret telling Mairead I will buy her a t-shirt.
7.14pm Buy the fricken’ t-shirt.
7.20pm Go into the Arena. Look for food.
7.30pm The only food is rubbish but we have no other options. Buy hotdogs and chips and drinks.
7.35pm There’s nowhere to sit and eat other than on the concrete stairs. Memories are made of this.
7.45pm She’s eaten about 3 chips, none of the hotdog and doesn’t like the orange juice. FML.
7.56pm I give up trying to make her eat and decide to go in to watch the support act. We find out door and open it. The noise is so cacophonous Mairead immediately covers her ears with her hands and is terrified to go in. The door lady looks at us with sympathy and says ‘If I was you I’d go and buy ear plugs – this is only half as loud as it will get. Plus when Katy Perry comes on they’ll start screaming.’
8.10pm Ear plugs purchased. Toilets visited. We sit in our seats.
8.11pm Mairead says ‘Mum, that’s not Katy Perry.’
8.12pm ‘Mum, where’s Katy Perry?’
8.13pm ‘Mum, I’m sick of waiting for Katy Perry.’
8.14pm ‘Mum, this is boring’
8.15pm ‘Mum, I’m hungry’
8.16pm ‘Mum, I’m cold’
8.17pm ‘Why is Katy Perry taking so long?’
8.18pm ‘Mum it’s too noisy in here’
8.19pm I put the $60 t-shirt on Mairead. It looks like a dress. It also looks like it will fall asleep after one wash. I feed her some cold chips. I let her play with my phone. I tell her all about the stage and the big screens and the sets. I ask her what song she thinks Katy Perry is going to play first.
8.31pm Katy Perry concert starts.
8.42pm Please enjoy my daughter’s enraptured reaction to seeing her idol live on stage for the first time….

She fell asleep. She fell asleep in the third song and woke up intermittently throughout, raising her head, checking it out and then going back to sleep. On my arm. So I couldn’t stand, clap, dance, nothing. She did wake up during the last song, Firework, because there WERE actual fireworks going off onstage.

I carried her back to the car, were she fell straight back to sleep (the lucky sod, considering it took 55 minutes to get out of the car park, I actually considered having a quick cat nap in the driver’s seat until the traffic thinned out).

So as much as it pains me to admit it, my kid was too young to go to a Katy Perry concert. I don’t mean the content – there’s was no twerking, bad language, excessive tongue exposure or suspicious foam finger activity like a certain other recent pop star I could mention. But it was too late, it was too loud and it was too crowded. It freaked her out. And I was so disappointed. I invested so much time and energy organising this special night out for us, but if I’m honest, maybe the show itself was more about what I wanted and not what my kid wanted or needed. So that totally sucked.

Saturday, 9th November

7.15am I casually ask Mairead if she liked the the Katy Perry show.
7.16am ‘No,’ Mairead says, ‘I like Katy Perry better when she’s in your phone.’

Can’t win ‘em all.

Very Scary Katy Perry (part one)

I’ve never been the sort of mum that buys her kids toys every time I’m at the shops. Years of practice have given me a steely reserve. I don’t hear their incessant demands, and I don’t see their big ‘don’t club me’ watery baby seal eyes. But I can never say no when they want to see a show. We’ve seen The Wiggles (the proper ones, not the new ones), Hi-5 (both recent incarnations), Sesame Street characters, Dora, Peppa Pig and Charlie and Lola. I don’t buy the merchandise, either. One of these days my kids are going to work out ‘Mummy left her wallet at home’ is a big lie. I’m not looking forward to that day, I can tell you.

Months ago, I told my 5 year old Mairéad that I would take her to see Katy Perry. Because I’m an idiot. First, I had no idea how much the tickets cost. Second, I didn’t investigate the release date for the tickets, which resulted in both the shows being practically sold out before I’d even started looking.

I started to get desperate. I went to Ebay and Gumtree seeing if I could get any there. There were some websites I’d never heard of the claimed they had tickets, but they were hundreds of dollars, and I just couldn’t justify paying more for two concert tickets than return flights to Bali for our family of four.

Time was ticking on – last week I even put this status update up on Facebook ‘Hey Perth, Does anyone know anyone with 2 seated Katy Perry tickets for Friday night for sale? I’m getting desperate. Desperate enough to admit on Facebook that I want Katy Perry tickets.’ Still no joy.

Then I had a stroke of luck – I found an ad on Gumtree for two tickets, seated, on Friday night, wanting only the face value of the tickets (PLENTY of people on there want more than double face value, they’re the reason why the tickets sell out so quickly – what complete a-holes). I texted the seller and they responded that the tickets were sold, but if the buyer fell through, they’d contact me first. I didn’t feel confident.

Imagine my surprise when on Tuesday, three days before the show, I got a text saying the those tickets were available. I could not believe it. I told Mairéad we were in and overjoyed she promptly decided she wanted to dress as Katy Perry from the Roar video. I drove an hour and 20 minutes to collect the tickets, gushed my thanks to the seller, even saying that he’d made a 5 year old girl very happy and went back to my car triumphant. I sat down in the driver’s seat to look at the glorious tickets…and saw that they weren’t seated together. They weren’t even in the same block of seats. And this wasn’t mentioned in the ad.

What was I supposed to do? Actually sit separately? Go and somehow find the people sitting near us and ask them to swap? Attach her to a leash that ran across the length Perth Arena? I was nearly crying. In the end, the seller agreed to take the tickets and refund the money. Thank God.

So I drove back home with no tickets and a sinking feeling in my guts.

And then, my friend told me on Wednesday that he was giving me his tickets. He couldn’t go, and he knew (from my Facebook whinging) about what had happened and how long I’d been looking. I still can’t get over his amazing generosity.

So, with thanks to him, we’re actually off tonight. I’ve made her the Roar music video outfit, a leopard boob tube (she wanted a bra top but that’s a bit much for a 5 year old), and a grass skirt, with a floral headband. I showed it to Mairéad when she got home from school last night, and she hasn’t taken it off – she even wore it to bed. I asked her what I should wear tonight, and she said I could go as the elephant. Nice.

What a drama it was getting these tickets. I was hot, I was cold. It was yes, it was no. I was in, I was out. I was up, I was down. But I’m grateful we have them. And I’m grateful to my friend. And I’m grateful that I don’t have to disappoint my child. But mostly I’m incredibly grateful that my kids as yet have no clue who 1Direction are.

But I think, for a while, I’m going to stick to the shows that have pram parking and not an over 18’s section. Just for a while.

The Disorganised Housewife

I’m the sort of person that watches gourmet French cookery programs while eating 2-minute noodles. I’m the sort of person that pours over fashion magazines while wearing tracksuit pants and a t-shirt (usually with a stain down the front from 2-minute noodles). And I am the sort of person that spends hours and hours looking at home organisation and beautification websites while my own house looks like it’s been ransacked by a drove of wild boar.

Last week, I was standing in the chemist’s, both kids in tow after an emergency visit to the doctor with my 5 year old who had spent the weekend mostly on my lap with the virus half her class seemed to have been struck down with. I’d left the house with dishes from the night before and breakfast still sitting in the sink. The bin needed emptying. The beds were unmade. Various colouring/glueing/stickering debris was all over the lounge. The laundry was on the dining table. You know, just an average day. And then I got a call that struck a lightning bolt of fear through my heart. It was from a woman who was writing a piece on me for the paper….that I had completely forgotten about. Eek! The voicemail message she left was this, ‘Hi Janelle, just letting you know that I’m running late – I should be at your place in about 40 minutes.’ Holy. Effing. Crap.

I threw the kids in the car and hooned back to my house. I plonked the toddler in her bed (even though it was hours before nap time) and hoped for the best. I thrust some Spray’n’Wipe and a cloth into the 5 year old’s hands and told her to get scrubbing. I dumped some bleach in the loo. I did a speed dishwasher empty and load (and I’ll admit I even briefly considered throwing all the dirty dishes into the oven to save time. I didn’t, but I thought about it), I shoved the clean clothes back in the dirty laundry basket. I got a bin bag and swept every piece of random flotsam and jetsam (hair ties, costumes, dummies, newspapers, books, at least 7 drink bottles) and chucked it in another room and shut the door – a personal trick of mine my partner not so fondly refers to as my ‘hidying up’. I zipped the hand-held Dyson over the floor and spot mopped. I had just enough time to close the doors to the bedrooms, change my top and slap on some lipgloss. And when the interviewer arrived she didn’t even ask why I was sweating and or why my cheeks were so flushed.

I wish I was a bedmaker. I fantasize about knowing where my wallet is every time I look for it. I dream of being a person that can’t go to bed without the dishwasher being loaded. I long for a Sunday night when I don’t think ‘OH SHIT THE UNIFORMS!’ But that’s not me. Our place is a messy, rough-around-the-edges home filled with kids and adults and guinea pigs and craft and far too many drink bottles. And I’m ok with that. Because sometimes it feels like cleaning a house that has kids living in it makes about as much sense as brushing your teeth while eating a Mars Bar.

And besides – no-one outside our family ever needs to know what our place really looks like. As long as I get a minimum of 40 minutes notice before you come over.

A Sticky Situation

My 5-year-old child Mairéad is addicted to glue.

OK – that was a bit dramatic and I may have given you the wrong idea there. What I mean is my 5-year-old child is addicted to glueing bit of crap to other bits of crap at school, and bringing home these monstrous masterpieces and calling them art. Every. Single. Day.

At school there’s a big wire rack outside the classroom where the day’s glueing is left for collection. And every day as we wait to get the kids, all the mums warily assess the ‘creations’, each of us I’m sure dreading having to take any of them home (the art – not the kids), and sure enough, my kid brings one home every day. And it’s usually the biggest one.

You might think that I’m not being supportive of her creativity, or that I’m stifling her artistic expression, but let me tell you this…my kids can paint and draw to their heart’s content…and I’ve got the couch and wallpaper damage to prove it. I’ve heard my kids murder Let It Go repeatedly for so long that even the feral neighbourhood cats came around to complain about the noise. I’ve let them ruin otherwise perfect cakes with their ‘decorating’, and I let them play hairdressers with my hair, with often disastrous results. But this glueing business is getting out of hand.

Today, she proudly brought home a mangled gluten-free cereal box with a length of wool and a bit of ribbon masking-taped to it. You would have thought she was brandishing an Olympic medal. Yesterday, half a Cruskits box with some toothpicks and another bit a strong hooked through it like a skewiff handbag. I’m waiting for the day she comes home with a tampon box covered in dyed coloured pasta (she still doesn’t understand about tampons, of course, she keeps saying to me ‘Mum, but it’s not fair! Why are you the only that’s allowed to have the little white crayons?’).

School has even asked us to contribute our household recyclable waste to the ‘glueing box’. They’re mad for an egg carton or a cling wrap tube. They’ve said specifically however, that they don’t want the toilet paper cardboard roll thingys because apparently those are unhygienic. I think if anyone’s wiping their bums with the cardboard roll bit, though, someone needs to let them know they’re doing it wrong.

But these creations. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with them. Do I bin them the same night she brings them home? Do I save them? Do I take a picture of them to keep forever? I mean – these things are seriously pieces of sh….art. They’re not cute, they don’t look like anything, I won’t be starting up an etsy shop for them, that’s for sure.

Maybe I just distract her as we leave school so that she forgets all about the glueing rack and we’re out and away. If I can do it to avoid the $10 for 4 minutes trampoline jumping at the shopping centres, surely I can do it at school?

But for the moment, it’s all about the glueing at our house. And although I complain about it to you (and any other parent that will listen), my daughter thinks I think her art is amazing. And here’s a ripper of a silver lining. Santa’s gonna have a cheap shout this year if all it takes to make Mairéad happy is empty cereal boxes.

If you’ve got any, let me know.

P.S. I would seriously love to hear how you guys deal with the ‘treasures’ your kids bring home. Any idea sharing would be gratefully accepted! x

Ask Janelle…if you dare.

I got some buggybuddys.com.au readers ask me some questions on motherhood. Silly sausages.

Shelley – Which makes the best babysitter – iPad games or ABC2?

ABC2. Hands down. I can’t lie. I am VERY guilty of using the telly as a babysitter – to the point where my partner refers to the telly affectionately as the ‘rectangular nanny’. It is absolutely a necessary evil. Especially when Phil was working FIFO and I was at home looking after our two kids – there was no way I could have done what I needed to get done without the telly occupying the kids.

But my GOD!! Children’s television – it’s sooo painful. I had to invent ways of getting through even being in the same room as some of the shows – Peppa Pig I can only endure by imagining all the pigs without ears, because then they look exactly like talking willies (admit it, I’m right). Giggle and Hoot…if I have to hear about them ‘twinklifying’ the night, the five steps to bed or Giggleasaurous one more time…seriously, how good would it be to tell those bloody owls to just flap off? I was excited to see there was a show on called ‘The Mole Sisters’ on ABC2 but I watched it once and they were nothing like the ones I went to school with. And as for The (old) Wiggles, I have to admit that I would watch them the same way I used to watch the backpackers in the Elephant and Wheelbarrow – I’d watch them and think ‘Which one do I fancy?’ and the answer was always the same – all of them. And In The Night Garden? What in holy hell is that show even on about? Tombliboos? Iggle Piggle? Macca Pacca acca wacca icka acka oo? I feel like it’s some secret language that I’ll never learn, and by the way – what actually ARE the tittifas? Sounds like something you can get in the red light district in Thailand (or so I’ve heard).

But my kids LOVE it. So, yes, I am guilty of sometimes using television as a babysitter. And I know there are plenty of mums out there saying ‘Oh, but I can’t even GET my child to watch T.V.!’ Well, to those mums that say that, I want you to know this. You’re just not trying hard enough.

Michael – Is having children more rewarding than the freedom to have afternoon naps whenever I want? Opinions differ.

Before I had kids I once slept for 14 hours straight. And I wasn’t even tired when I went to bed. The only reason I woke up was because my back hurt. Another time I caught a flight from Melbourne to Honolulu, fell asleep against the plane window before we’d taken off and woke up an hour before we landed. If sleeping was an Olympic sport, I would have been an international champion. And then I had kids.

Once your first kid is born you are bestowed with that most significant of all parental super powers – mother hearing. The tiniest peep or rustle from the bassinet during the night jolts you awake, demanding your immediate attention. All through the night once you bring the baby home and put her in her bassinet, your new mummy ears keep you alert and poised – listening through the endless cacophony of grunts and groans, sneezes and snores, whimpers and (quite remarkable) wind. Honestly, some nights my partner was so loud some nights I could barely hear the baby.

And then they get older, and you learn that children will never, ever sleep in, that they call out in the middle of the night, that they wet their beds and throw up on the sheets – sometimes on the same night, often many nights in a row, and they have zero sympathy for daylight savings, jet lag or hangovers.

So, Michael, if you aren’t a parent yet and regular, uninterrupted, restful sleep is high on your list of priorities, perhaps the perfect child for you is a sponsor child in another country. Yes. Children are completely and utterly rewarding. But pristine, unstained 1000 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets are quite nice too. From memory.

Madeleine – Will my saggy bazoongas ever regain their voluptuousity/perkiness after 12 months of breastfeeding?

I used to have a great rack. I did. And now that I’ve had two kids suck them dry they look a pair of forgotten, semi-deflated balloons from last week’s party. And don’t tell anyone but I’ve also developed a rogue black hair on the left nip that certainly wasn’t there before I had kids. HAWT!

Oh, Madeleine. The bad news in answer to your question is no. Not without a surgeon. But the good news is that with the aid of uplift bras, push-up bras, rubber chicken fillets, cleavage bronzer and ideally good lighting, the only people that need to know your boobs aren’t still perky and voluptuous are you and whomever you choose to allow to see them unholstered.

Sometimes it’s not what’s inside (your bra) that counts.