The Writing Mamas Daily BlogEach day on the Writing Mamas Daily Blog, a different member will write about mothering.
If you're a mom then you've said these words, you've made these observations and you've lived these situations - 24/7.
And for that, you are a goddess.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Rack Attack: Let Me Just Get Something Off My Chest
It's funny how the relationship between my tits and me has changed.
Back when I was a single, ninety-eight pound wisp of a thing, I'd think, "Gee, they're not huge, but the dudes seem to dig 'em OK."
This perception didn't really change when I got married. However, during my first pregnancy, after the Boobie Fairy had paid her requisite visit, my husband, Kirk, suddenly became obsessed with my breasts.
And why shouldn't he?
After all, these were life-giving nutrition-delivery systems for my unborn fetus. Frankly, I loved the attention they got from Kirk.
When my eight-pound Ethan was born, the relationship with these powerful organs changed again.
My thirty-four B’s quickly transformed to thirty-eight D's and they got way too much attention, both from Kirk and from Ethan.
After a while, I wished that they -- Kirk, Ethan, and my tits -- would just fuck off and give me some peace. After six months of tender, cracked nipples, two rounds of mastitis, and antibiotics, I was over it – or rather, them!
I needed to get something off my chest.
I'd given of myself long enough. I had a gorgeous baby in the one-hundredth percentile of length and weight, and I wanted my body back. It took three months of running with the stroller, pumping iron, and countless reps of abdominal exercises, but I did reclaim myself. Even if my self was ten pounds heftier.
Two years later, the pattern started all over again, when I became pregnant with Alex. But this time, after all the fanfare about the Titty Fairy had worn off, it wasn't so easy to get my shape back.
As anyone who has had more than one child knows, it's much harder to get back to your fighting weight the second time around.
Your whole body changes.
The bags under your eyes are darker. Your ass stays wide longer. Your tummy, formerly firm(-ish), now looks like elephant skin. You sag in places you never thought you could.
Breasts are no exception.
While I've returned to the appropriate size, I have lost some respect for my life-giving appendages. Sometimes I'll put on a great bra, hoping for some help. I look in the mirror and think, "The life's been sucked out of these things."
The little apples I used to sport now look like half-filled water balloons. These sagging little organs used to inspire men and children alike? Knowing that I'm not having any more kids doesn't help. Now they're not milk-delivery devices or inspiring, erotic bits of woman-flesh: they're just extra stuff that happen to be on my chest.
I don't need them anymore.
"What's the point?" I think, as I throw a once-great bra into a drawer.
The other night, as I read a bedtime story to Alex, he gazed at me and copped a feel. "Mommy, I love your boobies,” he said. “I love this one, and I love this one!"
They may not be huge anymore, but , hey -- the dudes still dig 'em!
By Mindy UhrlaubStumble This Post