Being a new mother has brought on big changes in my life. I sleep differently. I talk differently. I even dress differently. Okay, well not that differently – certainly no Mom Jeans, but maybe more button-down shirts. However, I find nothing has changed more than my relationship with my boobs.
Growing up, I was always ”flat”. That was the derogatory nickname the boys thought up. When I finally went on a date, the boy tried to grab my boobs and when I wouldn’t let him, he promptly dumped me at school the next day because I was ”flat” and a ”prude”. The problem with that is another blog entirely – I’m not here to wax poetic about sexism and the problem with men who don’t respect women. I’m here to talk about ta-tas. Titties. Breasts. Melons, if you will.
As I got older, I was pleased with the wide range of motion small breasts gave me. I could participate in athletics with no pain. Flimsy bras lacking support always seemed cuter than underwire and pads. Still with the years, they did get a little bit bigger. I was already okay with them, those insults from years ago faded away and those boys who said them faded right with them.
When I got pregnant, I was amazed at how quickly my boobs started to change. They got big. From small lemons, to oranges, to grapefruits; I watched them morph into something I only dreamed of as a small girl, and now somewhat began to feel uncomfortable about as a fully-developed adult. I got used to my little cumquats and was almost sad to see them go. Mind you, motherhood is a great experience and watching my body change during pregnancy was amazing, frustrating and ultimately a miracle, but my boobs bugged me.
It wasn’t until my ninth month that I saw my first stretch marks. They were on the giant globes that had taken over where my breasts used to live. Just when I thought they could not get more ridiculous in stature and disposition, my son was born and they grew in planetary proporations. Dark blue and purple veins appeared where there were none. When my milk came in, it also came out. Leaking and leaching at every turn.
I recall being in the shower the second day my son was home and I heard him crying in the house. My left boob immediately started lactating in sympathy for his cries. My right boob did nothing. My left boob always produces the most milk. My left boob has always been the favorite of my son, his boob of choice when he is really hangry. My right boob is mostly just jealous. Even as I write this blog, righty is sitting there pinching a little, just out of sheer jealousy.
When I feed my son from the left, there is the telltale pinch of sadness from the right – every time. Just as I feel relief from one, the other gives a tweak of pain, and as if to prove a point, lets out a stream of milk – as if to spit in my eye. “It wasn’t always this way!”, I cry. “I always loved you both equally!”
My right boob looks at me with a suspicious glint in her nipple, as if to say “The past is the past my dear. Now I’m left out.” And we both secretly nod, because we know in our hearts that she is the lazy one.
I plan on trying to nurse my son for a full year, however, breastfeeding is difficult and I’m open to the idea that things change and not much goes according to plan when you’re a parent. I relish the idea that I am nourishing my son through milk I’ve created, yet at the same time, I miss my old nugget-like boobs. In my heart, I know I will never see those little boobies again. What will remain after I’m done nursing will be smaller, but never the same. Maybe a little saggier or veined. Perhaps a few stretch marks will remain.
It will be weird to have my breasts be my own again. Not that they aren’t mine now, they are, but their higher purpose has taken on a life of their own. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s already 9 o’clock and my right boob needs to wake up and get to work.
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article sponsered by Northern Michigan certified lactation consulting and Mother Hubbards Country Cupboard
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