A Surprisingly Sane Blog

I had this dream last night that I was trying to breastfeed Lil’ Fang again after a month-or-two-long hiatus.  Yeah, not the best dream I’ve ever had.  I woke up grabbing my boobs to make sure they were still firmly attached to my chest.  They were, thank goodness.

Then it dawned on me that while I’ve said the word VAGINA a time or two on my blog along with all sorts of horror stories related to birthing kids out of it, it’s been a really long time since I said anything about my ta-tas.  Oh boy oh boy… lucky you!

So you wanna know why you rarely hear about my breasts (well, in comparison to my va-jay-jay, anyway)?  It’s because they really don’t give me any trouble.  Yeah, my poor twat and the rest of me have been to hell and back, but I lucked out as far as boobs are concerned.  I don’t have anything to complain about in that department (yet), which is nothing short of a miracle.

My grandmother died of breast cancer when she was 36 years old.  Yes, you saw that right- thirty-six.  She was much too young to die of cancer, and I’ve had to be very careful to check for signs of abnormalities because of my family history.  When I was a few months pregnant, my midwife found two lumps in one of my breasts and sent me for further tests.  The ultrasound showed no sign of abnormal cells, thank God, but it was enough of a wake-up call to scare me into checking for lumps every month.  So far, so good.

Well, so a couple days ago I was getting out of the shower, feeling the goods for any weird bumps or lumps, and I caught sight of my reflection feeling myself up and I was like… damn, for breastfeeding two kids, my tits look really good still.  Yes, I actually thought that.  And yes, it was one of the first times I actually took a good look at them in the mirror since I weaned April. I avoid looking in the mirror if possible.  I’m too critical of myself to walk away feeling good if I do.

If you’ve ever breastfed and weaned a baby before, you know what a shock it is when your boobs suddenly shrink from those porn-star titties into a sad, pathetic shadow of what they once were comparable to nothing other than fried eggs.  Not pretty.  After pregnancy, they’re just never the same.

I was pretty certain, given the fact that I’ve dealt with tearing, stitches, scarring, stretch marks, yeast infections, surgery, three types of prolapse, pelvic floor rehabilitation physical therapy, and severe postpartum depression bordering psychosis that my post-baby breasts would be no exception to the rule.  I expected to look in the mirror after nursing two kids and turn away in utter horror before running to James and begging him to be my sugar daddy and pay for a boob job.

Somehow, that’s not the case, and I’m so proud of that.  So yeah, the rest of me is a fucked up mess, but BY GOD, I still have perky, decent-sized breasts even after two kids and being groped on a daily basis by my husband’s adolescent-hormone-controlled hands.

Ladies and gentlemen, FINALLY, something I can’t complain about yet!  Yeah, so they’re not the perfect silicone tits in James’ Playboy collection, but I am proud to announce that I still have very nice breasts, and I actually LIKE them.  I know I won’t always be so lucky- someday, my boobs will fall to my belly button before dragging on the ground like most do, but dammit, right now they look great… and that makes me happy.

Woo hoo!

Current Mood: Happy

Tags: Breasts

This entry was posted on Tuesday, September 29th, 2009 at 10:52 am and is filed under Confessions. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.