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.