Fondling at its finest

I Get Felt Up Every Night of The Week

Just call me a lucky lady

For most of my life, I thought very little about my breasts.

They are neither large nor small. They are perfectly average.

They don’t bother me when I run, nor do they cause backaches. I was a 32B before kids, a 36C while breastfeeding, and a deflated 36B in my postpartum years.

Because I am very solidly in the category of average-breasted women, I also can’t remember a romantic partner who ever spoke that often of my breasts. They were admired to a healthy extent, but never all that much.

This was all true, until my second son was born. And thus my breasts’ biggest fan was born.

My son loved breastfeeding. He latched easily, and we shared in this mutually enjoyable experience until he was nearly two.

Sidenote: the weirdest place I’ve ever breastfed him was atop one of those open-bus safari vehicles at a fake safari camp in Pennsylvania while surrounded by antelope.

When the time came, weaning him was tough. Some nights he would lie on the ground at my feet while I was making dinner pleading to have one more taste.

But we got through it okay. Perhaps in protest, my son has never once touched an ounce of cow’s milk since weaning. It was mom’s milk or the highway (plus Calcium Chews) for him.

In the time since those years when my breasts were the ticket to my son’s milk fix, he’s developed an utter fascination with my breasts.

He is four years old now, and he demands a nightly session to feel me up.

He sometimes takes both breasts in his hands and gives them a little squeeze. When he’s feeling playful, he plays them like bongos. He is sometimes naughty and pinches a nipple just to see my reaction.

Sometimes he buries his face in them while I’m reading to him, or slips one hand under my tank top to rest his hand on the warmth of my chest.

If he ever sees me without my shirt on or in the midst of a clothing change, he stares up at my breasts and smiles.

My son has no problem expressing his needs. He often says, “I want to feel your boobs!” or “I love your boobs!”

I’m amused by his behavior, and occasionally embarrassed when he does this in public.

But like so many things our children do, my son’s behavior has helped quiet my inner critic.

Sometimes after a shower, I catch a glimpse of my breasts in the mirror and give them a little shake. I’ve jiggled them myself and marveled at their bounce, despite the times they’ve continually inflated and then deflated in my motherhood journey.

I still spend far too many minutes of my life critiquing my body. I hate it when my jeans don’t fit. Some days I’m still shocked when the light catches my stomach in a certain way and I see just how many deep purple creases line my skin there.

But having a breast fan like my son eases the pain of those moments. He revels in my female form, creases, and all.

Perhaps it’s because of the memories engrained in him from those nights of breastfeeding. Perhaps it’s because he’s intrigued that my body looks so different from his own. Or perhaps it’s just because it’s my body, and I’m his mom.

I’m not sure why he does it.

But I’ve decided that until he grows tired of it, or perhaps when it becomes wildly inappropriate for his age, I’ll let my son continue feeling me up each night.

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Here some of my other stories, which occasionally mention my breasts but clearly not enough…