What's Good for the Goose is NOT always Good for the Gander

The kids think it's lame. "It's for old people Mama," is what the youngest told me. But I love Twitter! I've had an account for about three years but just started actually using or engaging regularly, last year. I'll admit that I get excited when celebrities actually reply to one of my tweets. I love to let the kids know when this happens. They aren't usually too impressed.

One time I got a notification that I had a new follower!

"Oh so y'all think it's lame. Okay...look who is following me!"

I ran into our daughter's room. Her brother ran in behind.

"That's not Selena Gomez! It's her fan page!" they scoffed.
I didn't understand why she would have followed me anyway.

Well, recently I saw an author on Twitter, who I absolutely had to start following: Judy Blume!
The mere sight of her name took me back to my elementary days. I fell in love with reading because of her books!
Blubber, Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, Sheila the Great! But my favorite one and the one that affected me the most was Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret.

It was the "coming of age" book for girls. I remember when our daughter brought home her first Judy Blume book! The nostalgia, the glee, giggles and...the worry. Background music starting with happy music then moving to Jaws theme music.

I side-eyed her a few times when she brought home Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret. I watched her movements and the refrigerator!

Okay. That book was, as I said, the "coming of age" book for girls when I was younger. I was all caught up in the game. I believed in it with all my heart; definitely my mind.

So I was this skinny, obviously confused, little girl who thought I could change my body by doing what the main character, Margaret did. Not thinking rationally that I wasn't supposed to have big breasts at that time.

Just as the main character, Margaret, did, I would pump my arms and repeat, "I must! I must! I must increase my bust!" I did it whenever I was alone: in the tub, splashing the Palmolive bubbles and sometime Tide all around the tub, in the kitchen while eating Sugar Smacks when adults weren't around, even on my knees while saying my prayers in my too small, faded pink Onesie.

But that wasn't enough. When the bust didn't increase I modified the exercise.

Again. I wasn't thinking rationally.

Not sure where I got the idea but...

And this is what got me in trouble.

I got the crazy idea to add something to accelerate the process.

I didn't have mental health issues either.

Needed something from the refrigerator.

My mom caught me!

Standing in the refrigerator.

Nine-years-young.

Onesie partially zipped open.

Eyes closed, arms pumping back-and-forth, chanting, "I must! I must! I must increase my bust!"

"WHAT THE HELL!" My mom yelled. "Git outta that refrigerator!" she yelled. "Who told you to put butter- GO TO BED!"

So I was so glad I never saw our daughter pumping her arms nor standing in the refrigerator late at night.

My mom and I never spoke of this. Ever.