By Jena Murphy, Redbook
My boobs were famous
in high school. When the boys made a list of girls' best body parts, I
always won best breasts. An ample size C, they were perfectly round and
buoyant, always staying put when I removed my bra. For me, bras were
optional and decorative, not a necessity. I could wear any type of top — spaghetti strap, backless, halter, sleeveless. The world was my oyster.
[post_ads_2]
And
as I aged, the magic of my breasts stayed with me. In my early
thirties, while on vacation with friends, they finally blurted out the
question they had always wanted to ask: "Are they real?" Yes, of course,
and fabulous.
Then
I got pregnant. I'm going to fast forward through those nine months
when my breasts grew gargantuan — mesmerizing, even. I couldn't stop
looking at them. I needed a whole new breast wardrobe. Giant bras. Bras
you could wear as hats. I was even bestowed the term "fun bags." My
giant boobs were so giant they wanted to lie down at the end of the day
and rest; they needed their own pillow. I could pick one up and hit my
husband in the face with it. It was fun.
"If I had any idea that breastfeeding would ruin my breasts, I doubt I would have done it."
I
am also going to fast forward through the first year of my son's life,
except to say that I breastfed. Yes, for the whole year. What's more, I
loved it. I was one of those lucky women: my boobs worked. The milk
came. The baby latched. The hormones hit. The weight vanished. I found
every single other part of being a mom impossibly difficult. But
biologically, I nailed it.
[post_ads]And
then I stopped breastfeeding and the magic disappeared — deflated. My
perfectly round, perfectly perky breasts dropped, and then drooped, and
then settled into a U-shape. They looked as sad as I felt. Perhaps I was
naive, but I really thought they'd reshape. I kept waiting for them to
tighten back up. It has been four years.
I've
since purchased my third round of bras. They're not the globe-size hats
of my pregnancy days, nor the slinky, lacy options of yore. They are
lifter-uppers. And even with these new bras on, clothes don't hang on me
in the same way. Here's what I should feel, according the internet:
joy, love, appreciation of my body and all the many gifts it has given
me. Pride that I fed and nursed and nourished my mewling infant into a
healthy boy. Respect and admiration for the strength and wonder of the
female form. Here's what I actually feel: fucking pissed.
"My perfectly round, perfectly perky breasts dropped, and then drooped, and then settled into a U-shape."
That's
the truth. I don't mind that my hips are a little wider, or my stomach
slacker, and I'm not sure what's going on with my butt. Fine. But if I
had any idea that breastfeeding would ruin my breasts, I doubt I would
have done it. Is that vain, selfish, and narcissistic? Sure. But it's
also true.
[post_ads_2]
There's a
far-reaching philosophical argument I could make. My breasts were part
of my identity, my confidence, my style, my beauty, my sexuality. And
they changed so suddenly, so drastically, in a time when my whole
identity changed — from person to mother. I connect my beautiful breasts
to my old self, and these new imposters to the mom-me. And I don't want
to be thought of as mom-me. At least not when I'm naked, or when I'm
having sex, or when I put on a beautiful dress and walk out the door.
But
there's also the less lofty argument. Formula exists. Lots of women use
it. I coul
breastfed for the first couple months and then
switched. Maybe the change would be less drastic. This is not the
breastfeeding vs. formula argument. It's not that. It's this: My body is
my body and I loved it. Yet for the many conversations around
breastfeeding — the difficulty, the complications of pumping at work,
the impossibility of procuring breast milk for those who want it, the
cultural pressure, the health benefits, the logistics, the commitment —
no one ever talks about this particular sacrifice. I'm sad my breasts
are no longer beautiful. I'm sad my body won't ever be fully mine again.
And that's a real loss.
More from Redbook
