HUMOR
My Breasts and I Don’t Get Along Anymore
Since my daughter’s birth, things have never been the same
The drama began after the birth of my first baby. Seemingly overnight, my breasts developed an attitude. Like a colleague who has recently been given a promotion and now thinks he’s hot shit, they became busy and distant. They had their own schedule, and they expected me to work around it.
We’d been through some drama before. All throughout high school, my breasts had remained stubbornly flat. I used to stand in front of the mirror and give them the evil eye, hoping I could make them swell through intimidation.
But when they finally did decide to perk up, I grew quite fond of them. For over a decade, we were in sync. During my pregnancy, they even gave me the gift of cleavage, which I thoroughly enjoyed — and which in retrospect, I should have flaunted more.
Then I gave birth, and I suddenly found myself at their mercy. They kept me tethered to my baby in ways for which no one had prepared me. No one had ever bothered to mention to me that the milk comes in whether or not the baby is present to drink it and must be properly “dealt with.”
My breasts interrupted me at work, constantly threatening to leak all over my shirt, and demanding that I pay them some mind. But the camaraderie we once shared was gone. My position had become subservient; I had been demoted to the status of milk cow.
My coworkers seemed to concur with my breasts’ assessment that I deserved a demotion. After all, I was the only milk cow in the office, and no one really wants to deal with a milk cow in the office. They don’t want to find your milk cow supplies in the microwave and they’re mad that your milk cow responsibilities are taking away from more important things, like responding to passive aggressive emails.
My breasts were rude and dismissive to my husband in the bedroom. “Don’t touch us,” they said. “We want nothing to do with you.” They were no longer sexual organs; they had found their higher calling.
Even when I stopped nursing, things between me and my breasts were never the same. As if in spite, they deflated into barely recognizable versions of their former selves. They were no longer proud and plump, but rather hung from my chest in a mournful sort of way. Once upon a time, they had eagerly protruded into modest but flattering shirts and dresses. Now they no longer delighted in being merely ornamental.
They perked up again, briefly, when I got pregnant with my second child, but once again, the relationship quickly spiraled into abuse. And once again, when their year of glory drew to a close, they retreated in haste.
My fallout with my breasts was by far the most dramatic, but other parts of my mom bod also had their moments of spite. Months after giving birth, my hair started falling out in clumps. My previously taut tummy spilled defiantly over the waistband of my jeans. My once-glowing skin took on the sallow hue of an otherworldly creature who wanders in the dead of night. My back and shoulders succumbed to a dull and persistent ache. My immune system, once a shining pillar of strength, shrank from the onslaught of snot and germs. It lurked in the shadows, moody and unreliable.
Still, I’m happy to report that nearly six years after the birth of my second child, I have managed to reclaim some version of my body. It’s a softer, saggier, lumpier version but it can still move, and sometimes, with just the right amount of alcohol, it can still dance, too.
And it’s worth noting that I have gained a new friend in the process. Well, more accurately three friends. Yes, I’m talking about my glorious gluteus maximus, my grand gluteus medius, my gorgeous gluteus minimus.
They have been sculpted and strengthened from years of sitting down — or rather, attempting to sit down — and then popping back up again to attend to crying babies or sparring siblings. Years of squatting to comfort or reprimand my children at eye level. Years of reluctant yardwork because our first baby motivated us to move from our third-story condo to a house with a proper yard. Years of carting all the things downstairs that belong upstairs and all the things upstairs that belong downstairs.
I could gaze at my glutes in the mirror all day long. If my breasts ever get jealous, I say so be it. They had their chance to shine.
Although my breasts ended up selfishly stealing the spotlight (typical!), this prompt was the original inspiration for my story:
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