My children have owned my boobs for the last seven years. After nursing four kids on demand, two of them twins, I think of boobs very differently now. My boobs have been places few people can comprehend. Mostly stretched to hither and yon and back again, and I can live to tell about it. They have morphed from close-to-C cup beauties (pre-baby) to engorged double Ds (post partum), down to flat-as-a-pancake As (post weaning).
Boobs are amazing, no matter what shape or size. Although our society over-sexualizes breasts, I mainly think of mine as a source of food for my children. I remember the night I learned to sleep on my back while nursing the twins, one cradled in each arm. My boobs somehow stretched to accommodate them; it was great. For the first time in eight months, I was able to sleep at night while tandem nursing lying down, as opposed to lightly dozing sitting up with the twins propped up on the EZ2Nurse pillow. Getting some sleep during my “dark period” (another blog, entirely) was heaven. And it was all due to my hidden superpower: resilient boobs.
In a society where boob size is more important than IQ or college degrees, what is a sane, educated, boobless woman to do? The idea of a boob job (erm, “breast augmentation”) has entered my mind, but at what cost? At $10,000, the price of a small car, is it worth it? Some female (and male) family members agree, “Yes, totally worth it!” But credit card debt and major surgery? Do they sell bigger-boob wardrobes on Ebay? Will I be solicited to cocktail waitress at Hooters?
Or what about getting pregnant again to have big boobs? I think God had a sense of humor in equipping women to have these amazing porn star boobs after giving birth. Like his way of saying, “Well done. Might as well look good, too, while you’re post partum!” So, I could get pregnant to re-inflate. Just a thought. But the little voice inside my head thinks there must be another way.
So last week I settled for a cheaper, quicker boob job. I went shopping at Target for some new bras. Not any bras, mind you. Underwire, padded push-ups. Since our baby, Zack, weaned, I kept falling out of my old bra. I was tired of adjusting my boobs in public at the worst possible moments: while meeting our new Bishop, and in the middle of our kids’ school’s Harvest Festival Cake Walk. The boob adjustment dance in public was getting old (and tormenting my husband, Ben). It was time to transform into ninja shopper and go for the kill.
Stay tuned for Part 2.