Okay, time to employ the "kitty" rule again...ha, this kitty rule is the best thing ever! I think I've twisted the original "rules" though to a certain extent. I think the original directive was to post a warm, fuzzy kitten picture RIGHT before you talk about something that is very un-warm-fuzzy-kittenish, or before you post a picture that's just plain gross. Let's see if I can find one in my blog pic vault here....
Seriously--is there something wrong with me??? Does anyone else just LURV ridiculous pictures of cats with zany human-like sentiments and affectations attached to them? Angry cat at a drive thru...ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ...
But we're not going to talk about kitties.
WARNING: THIS POST IS ABOUT BREASTS, TITTIES, TA-TAS, HOOTERS, HONKERS, JUGS, BAZOOMBAS, BOSOMS, CHESTICLES, OR WHATEVER YOU CHOOSE TO CALL THEM. THIS POST IS NOT SOME PERVERTED ROMP THROUGH A STRIPPER-ESQUE WORLD OF OVER-SIZED, CARTOONISH SKIN BALLOONS, NOR IS IT A GRATUITOUS ESCAPADE OF THE BUXOTIC. THERE WILL BE SOME CRUDE BREAST EUPHEMISMS USED. STILL, IF YOU'R OFFENDED ABOUT DISCUSSING BODY PARTS, OR IF YOU'RE MY DAD, PLEASE STOP READING HERE.
Girls, do you remember your hoots when you first had them? They were so embarrassing. Did your grandmother ever make you a nice, thick, hand-knitted sweater, and the first time you wore it, a boy in your class said; "hi so-and-so, nice tits," and you were so mortified you never wore the sweater again? And did your Mom just not get it, and keep asking why you never wore that nice sweater that Grandma made? Was that memory burned into your brain, so that now, even as a bagged-out growed up woman, you still run into that guy from your elementary school, and you feel like TELLING him that story, but you can't because ultimately it means discussing BREASTS??? And we all know that breasts are good, yet baaad, and good because they're baaaad, but they should really just be good, because their one and only purpose is to nourish the tiny new people of the world?
Before I started grade 6, we were informed that in the new school year, we would have to start changing for gym class. My stomach dropped. I felt cold, clammy and sick all at once. I came from a ridiculously modest family (maybe no more so than many other families), and there was no way that I was going to pull my shirt off in the change room and reveal my fairly new chesties. Oh the unbelievable horror. There was no choice: I would HAVE to get a bra. That took a lot to rustle up the nerve to ask my Mom--let me tell you. She was a super private person about all things female. Somehow though I managed to squeek it out:
"Mom, I need a bra."
So, we went for THE most uncomfortable shopping trip ever. Mom picked one that looked cute, and I went in the change room to try it on. I was so horrified by the whole experience, I simply assured her it fit fine, just so I could get the hell out of there.
That thing was stiff and itchy. I remember running around at soccer practice in the summer, being slowly chafed to death by it's horrid, unsympathetic stiff nylon-y-ness. "Maybe I can just not wear it today???" I asked/pleaded with my Mom."
"No. You have to get USED to it."
And so began years of bras: terrible bras with maxed-out elastic, straps that slid off your shoulders simply by breathing, itchy lace, bumpy lace that looked terrible under a sweater, bras that squeezed more boob fat into your armpits, than up front, bras that had just the right shaped cups, but the band was so tight you could hardly breathe, so you cut out the clasps from another older crappier bra, and sewed them onto the band of this bra, creating your own masterful extension.
There were bras that turned your boobs into the shape of ice cream cones, balconette bras that give you marvellous push-up action, but your jugs would fall out every time you reached down to pick something up, bras with little pockets in the front that held little half moon packets of "water" so as to appear more well-endowed, but all they really made you appear was bulky and lumpy, bras that felt great in the change room, but turned into a sliding knife of pain after wearing them for half an hour.
Oh, and you also bought bras that were a really cool colour, like super hot pink, but you could never wear that under pale clothing. You bought that one strapless bra for those awkward but sexy shirts you wanted to wear out to the club. You had to keep pulling it up constantly though. At first you tried to do this when nobody was looking, but after a while you didn't give a crap, and just yanked it up whenever. This bra also did a better job at giving you ample armpits than anything else, and when you finally, mercifully took it off, you had a red ring around your torso that would still be there when you woke up in the morning.
Oh, and don't forget those sport bras you bought, that had you welded in as snugly as a criminal in an iron maiden. There was also the 'racerback bra', which you bought because you had one stupid (but really cute!) shirt in your drawer, that had an awkward shoulder-revealing shape.
You had a whole drawer full of bras: functional, beige, white, black, strapless, sexy, lacy, frilly, blue, hot pink, but you still only wore that ONE AND ONLY BRA THAT WAS COMFORTABLE and had just the right shape, day in, day out.
Girls, do you remember when you were in yout late teens/early twenties, and your zooms were WAY up high on your chest? Yeah, those were good times.
And then, one day you got married, or not, and became pregnant. Those breasts were no longer your friend. They HURT. They hurt if the seat belt rested across them. They hurt if someone bumped into them. They screamed if you weren't really careful putting on your shirt.
At last the baby came. Aw, the magic and terror of being responsible for a brand new person. You were going to do the right thing: you were going to BREAST FEED YOUR BABY (breast is best, yo). At first it was a little scary, but maybe not too difficult. You felt like you were really doing it, but what you didn't realise was that your milk had not yet come in. And then, two days later, it came in. You noticed this at the first light of day.
HOLY TORPEDOES, BATMAN
OMG, your gazongas are now ROCK HARD, and standing straight up. Whoa...it's kind of fascinating, but more than a little disconcerting. Okay! Time to feed that hungry baby! Oh, but wait...that's funny...your nipple has disappeared. The baby is mashing his little face around on you in a frenzy, as though he's trying desperately to find a nipple on a great big, completely smooth balloon. So, you've read all your handbooks. You simply hand that baby over to your husband for a moment, or lay him down safely beside you, and you apply a warm, wet compress to your ENORMOUS boob. There! You have a bing-bong again! Quick! Get the baby! You get the baby back into position on your nice, new c-shaped pillow, AND---oh no, it's disappeared again. So, you do what all new moms do: you panic. The kid is not very happy either, and he begins to scream, which is not helpful at all. You're frantically squeezing milk out into a washcloth as your baby shrieks beside you, and your husband dances around with wide eyes wanting to help, but not knowing what to do.
Finally you mange to get something for that baby to latch onto. You're sweaty from head to toe, and your teeth are nearly chattering from the stress. The little baby is pretty happy though, but he holds one arm out, with a fist, like he's ready to punch you right in the neck if you give him a hard time again.
A few days later, you have a problem. Not with the feeding thing--you've been doing fairly well on that. You've had your husband pull baby's little chin down while he's eating, just so he can get the best "latch" possible. You notice that his mouth forms the perfect, textbook shape of the feeding baby. Yeah, you are awesome! However, your nipples are killing you. First they are extremely sore, and swollen. Then they start to crack. Then, if you're really lucky, they might even bleed a little.
So, you walk around the house, with your jelly bag, postnatal stomach, and a nursing bra on with the flaps hanging open, because you've only got an hour until the little *!$# eats again, and that stupid book you have tells you that air will help heal your nips. No wait, they're not nipples any longer--they're NOPPLES now. So, you've got your nops hanging out, and they don't feel any better, but through the baby monitor you begin to hear that sound...that sound of the sleeping baby moving around. Stirring. Getting ready for his little internal food clock to ding. You want to cry, because your nops hurt so FREAKING MUCH, but you're wearing the MOM PANTS now, and you've got a job to do, so you get that tube of gunk out, spread some on your nops, hoping it'll make a sort of barrier between you and that great suction of pain, and head off to prepare the feeding area.
OH, but all those stupid books, pamphlets, and even that lactation lady, all told you that "if it hurts, you're doing it wrong. Breastfeeding should not hurt."
That is the stupidest thing that all new mothers all told.
Think about it: if you have a human sucker fish attached to your boob, every couple of hours right from the time he's born, and he's ruthlessly dragging milk out of a nipple, IT IS GOING TO HURT. I don't care what anybody says. Your poor nopples have ever been mistreated like this before. Period.
Isn't it fun that you can shoot milk at your husband from six feet away, and hit him right in the unsuspecting side of the head? Yeah, that is AWESOME.
What's not awesome is sleeping with a bra on, with breast pads in, and if you don't, waking up for feeding time having soaked your shirt, and all the bedding on your side. However, you're so tired, you climb right back into that puddle at 5 AM and go back to sleep for another couple of hours.
These days of nursing don't last forever though. Eventually you decide the time has come to stop breastfeeding your baby. You know this, the baby knows this--he's thrilled to be able to hold his own bottle/sippy cup of whole milk. In fact, he likes that better than you, which sucks a bit, but so be it. So, everything's moving along, but your body still thinks it's supposed to be making the milk. Even if there's no little person there to drink it. Oh the pain of your rock hard boobs. No problem--you just have to walk around with cabbage leaves in your bra for a few days, and you'll feel much better. There, almost back to normal.
And so you're left with breasts that kind of remind you of your old breasts, but it's like somewhere along the way, someone swapped your young, high-on-the-chest bazoomies for a worn out second-hand pair. Well, they certainly have more lines on them than before.
Then comes that strange day when you finally decide to deal with your fancy bra drawer. You have a whole stack of B cups that now have to be thrown away. It's like each lacy, frivolous bra is a moment in time from a younger, slimmer, more care-free you. In its place are the biggest-of-the-C-cup bras you've replaced them with. Sigh. That's okay, you go ahead and have that pity party for a moment or 20.
So now you're a Mom with kids, and you would appreciate your jump in cup size, but your larger mams are now overshadowed by a) that brand new protuberant stomach (that never went away), and b) copious amounts of BACK FAT.
But still, aren't you lucky that you have them? Your hooters, not the back rolls. Aren't you proud of the way they nourished your children? Doesn't it make you think of a woman who has lost one or both breasts to cancer? Aw, baggy and saggy as they may seem to you now, give your boobies a hug. They're still awesome.