I can't do it.

Walking up the sidewalk, I spot her. She’s sitting on a bench just outside of the garage. As I get closer to her, I try to smile at her, but she won’t look at me. She’s afraid I’ll do it. But I can’t. She doesn’t know that I can’t, so she keeps her eyes focused on the street. As long as she doesn’t look at me, maybe I won’t notice her. Maybe I’ll think she’s busy. But her head is tilted downward and sideways just enough to betray her obvious façade. She’s afraid I’ll do it. But I can’t. In fact, every inch of my being begs me to do the opposite. I want to sit next to her, put my arm around her, ask her how her day has been, invite her in for some warm coffee, take her home and offer her my bed and shower.

She won’t look at me, though. My spirit is overcome with sadness. I can’t walk away from her, so I sit on the bench next to hers. For nearly ten minutes, I sit there facing the street wondering what got her to where she is and what makes me different. I wish she would look at me and see me, not the uniform that she fears. She probably wishes I would look at her and see her, not her circumstances.

When I took this job, I was told what I’d have to do. “It’s an easy post. Guards love it there. The only thing you’ll ever have to do is run-off homeless people.” I knew then that I could never do that, but I needed the job, so I pretended that I could. I hid my immediate repulsion. I hid my anger.

My first day of training, I was instructed on just how to run-off homeless people. “You can’t let them stay on the benches. Just go out there and tell them that we can’t let them be there. They will leave. They’re nice about it. They know they can’t be there.” Again, I hide my reaction. I want to ask what is so wrong with tired people resting on benches. I want to ask why the benches are even there, if not for rest. I want to yell that they are not nice about it, they are humiliated by it and so they move on. But I nod and keep walking…I need the job.

But here I am three weeks later and I have to face my responsibility. I just can’t do it. Fire me. I am not going to make her leave! She isn’t hurting anyone. So what if some people don’t like to look at the sidewalk and see someone actually sitting on one of the benches? So what if the building manager is afraid to touch the spot where she sat? How can I make her move? What if the only rest she finds today is on that bench in this moment? What if her shoes are too small and her feet are sore? What if her back hurts from walking all day? What if she is about to pass out from exhaustion and just needs to catch a small nap? What if she is weak from hunger and can’t possibly take the steps to someone else’s bench?

How can it be my job to make her leave?

I can’t do it.

For the Love of Breasts

About a year ago, my son decided he was finished with my breasts. He was eight months old. He’d spent the first four months of his life surviving exclusively on mommy milk. He’d lie in my arms or next to me on the bed and look up at me with adorable, brown eyes that seemed to say, “Gee this stuff is good.” And when his little tummy was full, he’d turn his head to the side, fling his arms out, and give me a little smile that I took to mean, “Thanks, Mom!” But as he tried more and more solids, he needed less and less of me. Though he still wanted to start every day with a dose and end every day with a dose, he gradually weaned himself from mommy milk. At eight months old, he completely refused it. I tried to cradle him and coax him into latching on. But this time, he tossed his head from side to side and refused to acknowledge my aching, leaky boob. He squirmed his way out of my lap and tossed me a look that said, “No thanks, Mom.”

Heartbroken, but relieved at the same time, I decided my boobs deserved something nice. After all, my girls and I had just spent over half a year keeping this child alive! So, a couple weeks of “drying up” and I was off to Victoria’s Secret. WRONG. Apparently, the folks at Victoria’s Secret don’t know what breasts are for! There were no bras to fit my highly accomplished boobs. There I was sporting my epaulettes with pride, walking with my shoulders back and chest out. I wanted to tell everyone I passed, “Hey, these things are awesome!” But the sales woman was stumped. She had no idea what to do with boobs that couldn’t even fit into a padded D.

Standing in the dressing room, looking in the mirror at the unsightly overflow, my spirits sank. I wanted to cry. Not only does JJ not like them anymore, but neither do I. I didn’t have sexy cleavage; I had four boobs: two large ones crammed into the cups and two more sitting on top of the cups. To make matters worse, the little stick-person sales lady looks at me with a frown and says, “I know how you feel. I can’t find one small enough for me.” I picked up my homely nursing bra, hoisted myself together, and left screaming under my breath, “no, you don’t know how I feel, you skinny bitch. A year ago, after five years of carefully managed weight, I was a size six and wore a 34B. Now, I’m wearing maternity pants and my son is nine months old; I have stretch marks in places people will never again see, and my son, the reason I could bear all the changes in my body, will never have any memory of what this body has gone through for him; And you can’t even sell me a nice bra!”

Don’t get me wrong. I certainly can show some love to itty bitty titties…but not that day.