It is almost 11:30 at night, my eyes are struggling to remain open and focus on this screen, but the perfectionist in me can not go to sleep until I have made an entry today. (Can you say OCD?) Besides, it really was my intent to write earlier, but foolishly I thought it would be more productive to run errands first, then come back to write before school pick-up began. Think again oh clever one – I managed to fill up almost 4 hours with “errands”. The time school pick-up was over, it was kid time, activity time, make-dinner time and then go to rehearsal time. (Can you say Miller time?) Needless to say, I am finally home and able to respond to a very funny blog that I read yesterday.
Oh Melissa! If you need a good chuckle please check out her blog about bra shopping, titled “this is a girl blog. about boobs and shopping”.
I couldn’t stop thinking about you in the Victoria’s Secret dressing room all day today. Unlike you, boobs were just a fantasy of mine throughout highschool, although one of my boy “friends” did ask to touch them in 8th grade at a pool party (sorry mom). The Hare would have called them “boob dots” since that is how she refers to her big sister’s anatomy. I wore a bra, of course, so I wouldn’t be totally embarrassed changing in front of the other girls. College is when I finally started to show some promise. At best they grew to a full “B” thanks to the hormones in my birth control pills. A 30 “B” to be exact, my dear Melissa, and no – Victoria’s Secret didn’t really carry my size then either. I tried every boob enhancing bra ever manufactured: the push-up bra, the water bra, the gel bra, and the extra padded bra but none of them worked. They only pushed up two little hills that didn’t quite fill the cups creating a ridge between me and the enhancement. Then it just looked like I had 4 small breasts. It wasn’t until I got pregnant with my first daughter, The Tortoise, that I discovered what real boobs felt like. She was almost 9 1/2 weeks early and had to stay in NICU for the first 15 days of her life (that is another blog entry). I was a new mom and had either read every “what to expect” book published or watched every TLC special aired. I was ready. The hospital sent me home with a big blue box with a double pump and said, “use this to pump to fill your bottles and bring us the milk to feed your daughter.” The nurses said it would be much easier on her digestive system than formula, besides, I had planned to nurse all along. So I found in my books how often a baby would typically nurse and set a schedule – around the clock – pumped every two hours – both sides simultaneously – did I mention around the clock? Within 48 hours my breasts stood straight up like two volcanoes ready to erupt even while I was lying flat on my back. I could barely pull the stretchiest shirt over these tight, hard canons. When my mother came to take me back to the hospital a look of horror spread across her face, her eyes became wide and full of fear. It was clear that she worried I would go all Incredible Hulk on her and bust open my shirt from the pressure. She offered to take me shopping for nursing bras. I was a bit uncomfortable, but I’m not going to lie. I kind of liked having these new accessories. Besides, how much bigger could they have possibly gotten in just 2 days?
“DD”…no, I did not stutter. The very sweet elderly lady measuring me at the Motherhood store looked just as stunned as you are now. I needed a size 34 “DD” to be exact. WOW! I started to wonder if maybe I could just keep pumping for the rest of my life. This had to be easier than getting implants, no? Besides, just think of all the milk I could donate! Well, it was short-lived because after a few more days, the NICU nurses told me not to bring any more milk. My little Tortoise just couldn’t drink as much as I was producing.
“Sweetie, ” one nurse asked me, eyeing my voluptuousness jealously, “how often are you pumping anyway?”
“Every two hours, ” I said matter of fact. “Even at night…both sides” I was so proud. I thought for sure they would be impressed with my diligence.
The nurse took a minute to process, swallowed slowly and then responded. “I’m afraid you have been mistaken. You only needed to pump one side at a time during the day. And you should really sleep through the night while you can. Your body thinks you had twins.”
Sigh. So I gave up “the twins”. More than I had imagined I would, because now after nursing two children, I’m barely a 32 “B”. Trust me, Melissa, little boobies that have been sucked dry hang just as floppy as big ta-ta’s. And the older I get, the more they flop. Sometimes I swear they get longer each year. Gravity sucks. My sweet little Hare once asked me if she was going to have “mommy boobies” or “daddy boobies”. I really couldn’t imagine what she meant. “Well, silly, daddy’s don’t have boobies so I guess they would be mommy boobies”. She looked at me like I had an extra pair of breasts growing out of my head. “Then how come daddy’s are bigger than yours?” Nice.
One time around the holidays I was buying a stack of books as Christmas gifts. It had been a really nice afternoon actually with both of the girls. The Hare was asleep in her stroller and The Tortoise and I had just enjoyed a very stimulating story time in Pooh’s Corner. (Yes, that was sarcasm. It’s now midnight, what do you expect?) There were just a few people ahead of us, but a long line behind. A mom from the reading group was in front of us with her bottle guzzling toddler in tow. The Tortoise watched the self gratifying child very curiously. The mother turned around, smiled at my well-behaved child, and was greeted with a very loud question from The Tortoise, “Don’t your boobs work? My mom can shoot milk out of hers.”
Recently I went on an all girls weekend to the Bahamas. It was a cruise. I love hot climates because then I can wear all the fun clothes. Unfortunately most cruise collections require something to hold up the fabric, especially if they are backless or strapless. I decided to venture back into Victoria’s Secret for advice. The extra perky sales child batted her eyes at me, picked up a pink and black box. One hand held the box while the other caressed it like Vanna White turning letters over on The Wheel of Fortune. “This is what you need,” she squeaked. I quickly grabbed the box and headed home to try on all of my clothes. There was one top in particular that I couldn’t wait to wear. It had been hanging in my closet just waiting for the boob fairy to come visit so I could efficiently fill it up. And now, she had arrived. The instructions were right on top of the box, so I read them slowly. Twice. Studied the picture diagram. (I am OCD if you hadn’t gotten that yet.) Gingerly I opened the box, half expecting some evil laughing clown to come pouncing at me. But no – instead I was looking blankly at two perfectly clear, half-moon shaped, squishy gel pods. It took me several tries to figure out how to best apply them. The trick is to just stick them halfway under the pits so that when you hook the centers together you actually get some lift and not just bulk. I wore them around the room for a few minutes…doing the booby dance. You know the one: Jump up and down, bend over and swing them to and fro, raise your arms high above your head. I needed to know if these gel adhesive boobs were going to really adhere to my body. The last thing I needed on my cruise was to drop a pod at dinner or on the dance floor. Then I tried on every backless, strapless, top I had in the closet. It certainly seemed like a miracle. So I packed them.
The night before our trip I spent the evening with one of my traveling companions so we could leave for the airport together. I couldn’t wait to show her my new toy and pulled them right out of the suitcase as soon as I unpacked my jammies. “What do you think?” I smiled holding out the precious gel accessories.
“I think those are more than 3.4 ounces each!” I had to wear the darn boobs through security.
So now I am ready to go to bed and sleep soundly knowing that I have ended the day with a blog entry. This subject unfortunately has reminded me that I desperately need to go replace my bras soon. I think they are supposed to be replaced about as much as a well used pair of running shoes, every 6 months. Although I probably replace them closer to every 6 years. (There’s just so many other things that I would rather buy.) Besides, they deteriorate slowly. I barely notice how little elastic is left or how much lower my so-called cleavage falls. I am avoiding it, I think, mostly because the last time I put on a new bra I realized for the first time that I had back fat. At least in my old, stretched out bras I don’t have that. The last thing I need is to look like I’m coming when I’m really going.