This is my bum.
In my new blue mirror/door.
This is my bum in khakis.
This is my bum in my yoga pants.
Because I've gone insane. But besides that,
allow me to let you in on my youngest children's comments over the last two months.
(yes. I named my son Johnny Tremayne. That might not mean anything to you, but it might. And if it does, do you think we are crazy?)
sorry. Johnny, who climbed into my bed and rested his head on my hip:
"Mom? Why is your bum so big?"
"Mom, you're a big girl, huh? That's why your butt is so big."
"Mom, I like you because your bum's so big. That's because I like big things."
if I knew they were yanking my chain just to get a reaction out of me, that'd be one thing. If I didn't know they were being totally and completely sincere,
well, then I wouldn't have this complex I'm having right now.
And then I ask the hubs about it and tell him what his darned kids said (they're "his" kids when they're bad, see.), and he just laughs and laughs.
And then I posted this picture couple weeks back,
and I was like, "Whoaaaaa there, sister! Don't back that thing up."
I had no idea I was that wide in the behind.
So now I really have a complex about it.
Don't say it. Don't you say it.
"I like big butts and I cannot lie."
You said it.
I know what I said a month back-- all that about how I was sick of hating my body and I wasn't gonna do that anymore-- I know what I said, okay? I KNOW.
I'm getting there. It's a process.
(this is my rear in a skirt.)
I had to know if it was like an orange on two toothpicks. Or like sputnik. Or if it needed its own weather system.
Or if it's a ginormous shelf that you could set your books on. Or if I needed to purchase two extra seats on my next flight.
Okay. It's out of my system. I won't talk about my derriere anymore.
My kids are jerks.