'I Talk a Lot About Breasts Since Becoming a Mother'
I talk a lot about breasts since becoming a mother.
I remember thinking it was tacky how openly new parents talked about sore nipples and engorged breasts. But then I had a kid.
I knew my view of breasts had changed within the first hour of Son’s life. After labor and delivery, one of my nurses helped me feed Son for the first time. She asked if it was okay to touch my breasts. After what she’d just witnessed, I was shocked she would consider any part of my body off-limits. I stifled a laugh and welcomed her help.
After Daughter was born, I had problems nursing that required an elaborate and time-consuming feeding regimen dictated by a visiting lactation specialist who showed genuine alarm when I revealed my war-torn nipples. Each nursing session lasted as long as I could withhold the F-word, followed by ten minutes of quality time with a hospital-grade milk extractor. Then came the warm-water rinse, air-drying, liberal application of prescription nipple cream to help fight infection and another round of air-drying. The irony that my own milk did not meet the antibiotic-free standards I imposed on the cows feeding my toddler did not escape me. This complex routine was repeated every two hours. It exhausted me. It annoyed Son. He would frequently ask, “What are those doing out again?”
At our house, we believe in proper labels for body parts. No nicknames. It is a vagina, not a va-jay-jay. Those are testicles—unlike balls, they do not go with cleats and bats. With a now 7-year-old son and 5-year- old daughter, we spend plenty of time talking about the difference between girls and boys. Daughter used to spend a few minutes at each potty break looking for her penis. Now, she’s moved on to looking for opportunities to insert her favorite non sequitur, “Everyone has nipples,” into random conversations.
Once, trying to expand his knowledge of anatomy, Son pointed to my chest and said, “I know that this bump is called ‘breasts,’ but what is that bump [pointing at my muffin top] called?”
At a recent night out with parents from Son’s class, stories of our kids’ anatomy one-liners were popular. My favorite came from a friend whose daughter announced that when she grows up, she will have breasts, only her nipples would go like this (hands at chest, index fingers pointing straight out like headlights), not like her mom’s (index fingers pointed slightly down) or grandma’s (index fingers pointed down at floor).
The gravity anecdote was fresh in my mind on a recent shopping trip to update my threadbare bras. It got me thinking about how my feelings and shape have changed over the years. As a teen, bras were about architecture, chosen based on their ability to make mountains out of mosquito bites. In my twenties, bras were about appearance, chosen based on color and design. After children, bras were about access, chosen based on their ability to facilitate nursing. Now, I only ask that a bra doesn’t cause so much back fat that I appear to have two sets.
Gravity has taken its toll on my body and my expectations.
On another recent shopping trip, Daughter pointed to a display of bras and said she wanted one. I explained that a bra is a tool for holding up breasts and that her breasts didn’t need holding up yet. She replied with a wish for bigger breasts that needed holding up.
I could not resist such a perfect opportunity to say, “Be careful what you wish for, my dear.”
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