If my postpartum boobs could talk…
Holy hell, what the heck happened to us?
Here we were, happily bouncing along in life, our sole purpose to look cute in a tank top and try to keep random boys from ogling us. And then all of the sudden—BAM—life as we knew it was gone, baby, gone.
It started with a slight twinge of pain. One September morning in 2005, we were in the shower happily getting clean when OUCH! the spray of the water hurt like mad. Huh? We thought. What’s going on here?
And then things really got weird. We started to grow like watermelons on steroids. D cup. E cup. F cup. G. H. H?????? Who’s ever heard of an H cup?
Out went the cute lacey bras, and our obese forms were stuffed into these hideous, flesh-colored, industrial things. We’ve never been so embarrassed in our lives.
Then, after a really long night where there was a lot of screaming, a human—a tiny, screaming human—started gnawing on us. I kid you not! This rabid little mouth started sucking and gnawing on us.
And then something miraculous happened. Milk poured out of us. And the tiny screaming human stopped screaming. It was awesome. We had what Oprah likes to call our “A-ha Moment.”
Maybe we weren’t supposed to just sit there and look pretty? Maybe there was more to this shallow perky life?
We won’t pretend the road to breastfeeding was always easy. There were clogged ducts. Mastitis. A chemical burn when we were doused in undiluted grapefruit seed extract. But finding our calling in life was awesome.
But as awesome as it was, being done with our job was even better. We settled back down into a (saggier) version of our former selves. Deflated back down 5 bra sizes. Sure, we spent a lot more time staring at the floor than ever before, but life was quiet. And restful.
Until one morning in 2008 when we hopped into the shower and OUCH! Here we go again…