Boob Job

Becoming a mom was like being handed the instruction book to my own body.  Finally!  The processes and parts that had baffled me since I was twelve made perfect sense.

Getting pregnant, living in a body that was growing another body, and laboring and pushing the baby into the world (ohh, that's what cramps are!) all served to shed light on some of the things about being a woman I'd found the most annoying, but breastfeeding was the lesson I was the most grateful for.  Giving birth may have put me at peace with periods and cramps, but nursing my babies taught me to love my boobs.

I was famously waifish my entire childhood.  I was the 'no fair! you eat and eat and eat--where does it all go?' gal who didn't even weigh enough to get to give blood in high school when the bloodmobile would come and transform the cafeteria into a M*A*S*H-like place full of cots and needles.

I didn't fully inherit my mother's body until I was in my early-twenties--I blamed the pill for my larger boobs, the freshman fifteen for my bigger pants-size, until one day it just became clear--a second round of puberty had hit and I had become my mother--soft, womanly, curvy.   And as a single, childless gal, it didn't suit me at all.

One of my closest friends routinely used her boobs as bait in bars.  That seemed creepy to me.  I wouldn't be interested in the type of guy who'd only be interested in them, or in getting that kind of attention from anyone. 

My boobs got in the way of the spontaneous life I was determined to live and I hid them under XLs and Benetton sweaters.

I stopped being able to buy the pretty handkerchief bras at Victoria's Secret--so social trips to the mall always resulted in some largely wistful, envious tagging along behind my perky pals.  'Yesss that one looks nice.'  'Ohhh that one is so cute.'  'How adorable,' etc.  Of course this was long before Oprah single-handedly changed women's posture by showing us how to wear the right size.  So no matter what kind of sturdy bra I'd find for myself there'd still be some element of pendulous swinging that would aggravate the part of me that was used to being a spritely twig.

They embarrassed me in public. Drawing an extra stare from a platonic guy friend when I'd shed the heavy brown sweater to wear a fitted dress to a party in college, or just generally jiggling when I'd dash across a street. Once down near National Wholesale Liquidators--a store worthy of dodging Broadway traffic--someone shouted 'buy a bra, bitch!'

They'd horrify me in dressing rooms--sticking out as reminders that the flimsy filmy clothes I envisioned myself wearing really just weren't practical anymore unless I was willing to add some extra-hefty sports bra underneath the layers, which would, of course, defeat the purpose of the flimsy filminess I was going for.

My boobs were not me.  This was not who I wanted to be.

And then I had a baby!  And the glorious instruction manual that was pregnancy and motherhood covered a lot more than I'd anticipated.

Monthly periods?  Oh, I get it now!  The lining I didn't need this month just slipping away. 

Food aversions?  Make total sense.  My body's trying to protect me from weird bacteria. 

Food cravings?  Likewise.  My smart body knows exactly what it needs. 

Blue moods and plummeting hormones making me want to hole up at home?  Perfectly understandable!  Nothing like a little nesting in the winter.  Slow down, get back to basics.

Menstrual cramps aching and contracting, forcing me to leave high school early once a month, sending me to bed with a heating pad and prescription motrin?  Ohhhhh, that's what it's doing, and this is what it's rehearsing for.  Incredible. 

And finally, large fleshy orbs protruding from the front of my body?  Wouldn't want it any other way.  Happy healthy babies filling up with the best stuff in the world.  Pleasure and satisfaction, warmth and contentment all at once.

My boobs had a job.  Everything fell into place. 

And just as soon as I was ready to buy new clothes again I discovered the joys of the snug-fitting shirt.  No more wallowing in wool.