One Book, Two Blogs and Two Boobs

Here was my Mother’s Day present from Homer this year…

Notice the painstaking care he took to wrap it in Saturday’s junk mail.
No matter. I was happy. I got what I wanted – Rockabye: From Wild to Child by Rebecca Woolf.

She’s the voice behind Girl’s Gone Child and From the Bottle. If you’ve never read her, you should – even if you don’t have kids. If you do have kids and you know me, expect to get a copy of this from me for your next birthday or Christmas. (Sorry to ruin the surprise. Let me know if you already have it.) I liked it that much.

She tells motherhood like it really is – the ugly, poignant truth that it really is. Moms judging each other for their choices and getting their backs up for getting called out for being out of the norm. Lying to pediatricians because dealing with the truth is too scary. Fighting with your husband because you don’t think he loves you or your child the way he should.

Here’s a brief sample:

When a guy hits on me in the elevator on my way to my daily monitoring session, I want to have sex with him right then and there. I can’t believe he would even think to court a woman with a face resembling an elephant’s ass.

I thank him, tell him I’m married, but I would like to get his number just in case. You never do know.

…
I want to have this baby as soon as possible. That’s my birth plan. And I’m not going to fight The Man on this one. Nope. In this case, The Man is my friend.

There is one thing, though. I’m not sure how autobiographical it is. I saw a lot of similarities and consistencies between her blog and her book, except when it came to the references to her boobs. Yes, I know, girls notice boobs probably more than guys do. Any other time, I would rack it up (excuse the pun) to something that’s really none of my business, but when you blog about your boobs AND put them in your book, how can I NOT comment?

Here’s what I mean. A few months ago, she blogs about being flat as a board. In her book, she claims,

I was sixteen the summer I went from from a B cup to an E and my hormones went berserk…I had always wanted boobs when I was flat-chested, and here they were. It was like in the movie Big, when the boy wakes up as Tom Hanks, checking out his new, larger penis, like Whoa! This thing’s awesome!

The fact that this is the one apparent inconsistency that’s nagging in my brain probably says more about me than the author. I guess I spent most of my teen years (and pretty much every day) waiting for boobs like my daughter waits for our house to turn into a castle. There’s something to be said for optimistic cognitive dissonance.

Maybe my interpretation of the difference in stories can be chalked up to a chronological misunderstanding on my part. Stranger things have happened. I won’t let that get in the way of my recommendation. Get your hands on a copy. I really think you’ll like it.

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