Boobs. Knockers. Melons. TaTas. The Girls.
Whatever you call ’em.
Mine have been a part of my life since before they were a part of my life. When I was 12 I became obsessed. A few of my friends had already been blessed with boobs. My chest was sadly still flat. I used to steal my moms bras from her dresser and stuff them with socks and stand sideways in front of the mirror admiring my potential. (I am built petite…..I’m pretty sure I overshot my potential in those moments. 4 pairs of socks may have been pushing it. I wasn’t ever gonna be Dolly Parton.)
I finally started my menses at age 14. I sent a school photo to my best friend who lived back in Connecticut. He wrote a letter back that said “Hey! You finally got boobs!”
From that point until age 20 when I had my first son my breasts were a source of generalized concern. They were not shaped “right”. I had seen porn magazines. I assumed all boobs looked like THAT. Mine were a solid A cup. No more. I longed for a nice pair of C or D cups. After all, isn’t that what men found sexy? At age 18 I went out and spent $40+ dollars on a WonderBra at Victorias Secret. It was padded with a good 2 inches of padding. The padding was filled with water. It gave me the illusion of having bigger breasts. For the first time in my life I knew what cleavage looked like on me. And I loved it. I loved the attention I got from men. Not anything whore-y. Just the lingering glances they made at my chest when they spoke to me. And the little boost of confidence I got from wearing that bra. It made me walk differently. With more confidence.
In 2001, 2 weeks shy of my 21st birthday, my husband and I welcomed our first son. He was born 5 weeks premature. I had decided during the pregnancy that I was going to breastfeed my son. But for the first 24 hours of life he had a tube intubated down his throat. Then another tube in his mouth for 2 days. He was 3 days old before I was allowed to attempt to nurse him. I sat awkwardly in a rocking chair in the middle of the NICU, cradling my tiny newborn son who was connected to all sorts of tubes and wires and sensors that were attached to machines that beeped in alarm if I pulled any of them by mistake. A nurse rolled over a little divider curtain to hide me. I pulled up my shirt and pressed my sons tiny face to my MAMMOTH boob. (Oh yeah, if you have never had a kid, lemme tell ya….no one warns you that your boobs will qaudruple in size when your milk comes in and become full and hard as rocks.It wasnt sexy. It was painful. And weird. )
Anyway I pressed his face to my boob. His poor head was dwarfed in comparison. And……..nothing happened. I had no clue what to do. He had no clue what to do. A lactation consultant came over and manhandled my boob and shoved my nipple into his mouth. She taught me how to do what I thought was supposed to be natural and instinctive. It wasn’t. It often isn’t. The first time my baby boy popped off of my breast in mid-feeding and milk sprayed everywhere out of a half dozen milk ducts I was all “Holy CRAP!!! ” Because my naive brain assumed it came out of one single hole in the middle.
The more I breastfed my son, and the ones who came after, the more I became impressed with my boobs. Turns out, size and shape doesn’t mean shit. Boobs are pretty freaking awesome. I managed to feed, nurture and comfort 6 sons with them over the course of 12 1/2 years. I am currently still nursing my 13 month old son. When he gets hurt or gets fussy I can simply nurse him and he becomes instantly calm and content. Its like a magic elixir. Pretty damn badass if you ask me.
When my son Bailey was a newborn we shared a miserable case of thrush. Got rid of it with gentian violet. Whcih is a natural remedy, a liquid you must paint on your nipples and your babies mouth. So, for a week straight I had deep purple hued nipples and my infant son had a purple mouth. During the week, the thrush caused A LOT of pain. I would sit in bed nursing my son, my hands clenched in fists as I cried through the pain, determined to continue giving my son what was best for him.
In 2005 I had a scare. Found a lump in my left breast. Thought at first it was simply a clogged milk duct. But after 2 weeks it was still there, no matter what I did to get rid of it. I realized it was more than that and I started to get scared. went to a doctor who tried to tell me it was “just a clogged milk duct probably.” That doctor was a moron. (PROBABLY???? Thanks for the certainty, doc.)
Went to another doctor. Found out it really wasn’t anything serious. Nothing cancerous.
I am 33 now. My Girls aren’t like what they were back when I was 18.And frankly, I don’t miss ’em. They’re familear now. Comfortable. They’re a little softer. Kinda like a favorite t shirt thats been worn a million times and becomes super soft and cozy and fits like a glove.
I see those pictures of the women who have had boob jobs and have those globular shaped huge knockers. I don’t envy them anymore. Mine fed 6 sons. Mine are still enjoyed by my man. Mine are both purposeful and beautiful. Sexy and wonderful. Just like the rest of my body.
We as women must reach a point where we are comfortable enough to embrace our sexuality. Where we can love our breasts for all of the purposes they have. Where we can stand and be proud of the fact we have them. I know women who fought a battle with breast cancer and won with their life but had to sacrifice their breasts in order to do so. Those women understand being a woman is not EVER wrapped up in whether we have boobs at all. But to love them and respect them if we do. To be thankful for them.
Its taken me until age 33 to really be happy for what I have. To feel secure in who I am on the INSIDE so I can therefore be content with the outside.