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Boobies & Butting Out
Two Fried Eggs

Too small, I thought. Too boring. Too freckly. Too white. Too pink. Too easy to blush. I bemoaned the total lack of cleavage all through high school. Sighed over their inability to augment my social life. Put up with fried egg jokes from brother... (still do, actually.) Ignored wistful comments about my less-than-ideal measurements from less-than-ideal boyfriends. And finally, finally called a truce with myself.

I agreed to ignore that harpy of an inner critic, and think about things differently. I learned to love my chest eggery, the freedom, the general perkiness, their sporty, sporty ways. The fact I could wear whatever I felt like without constriction or backache.

My boobs, it turns out, were the perfect pair for me. 

NursingMomFlash forward to today. For my boobs, the last 17 months have ushered in an entirely new era. No longer mine alone, the boobs've reluctantly assumed a role in the spotlight, sharing an unprecedented level of participation in our daily life. 

Baby Mak still regularly demands "BOK!" and yanks my collar out in cartoony fashion to claw her way to her milky all-access pass. Any remaining kernels of naivete regarding whose boobs are whose fly out the window. They are hers. On loan. For the moment.

I just carry them around for her.

The downside of nursing for 17 months is um, obvious. We're not talking two-oranges-in-a-pair-of-pantyhose-kind-of-obvious, or anything. It's certainly not as bad for me as it might've been had I been that longed-for C cup back in high school. And certainly, the upside of nursing is worth it: The incredible connection, a super-happy, healthy kid and the ease of hydrating her. It's been and continues to be an amazing experience.

What's interesting now, as Baby Mak exits infancy and we waddle into the sunrise of toddlerhood, is that my boobs - and what I do with them - are apparently up for public discussion. Again.

Breastfeeding is a surprisingly controversial topic. Linked to hot-button subjects of sex and parenting, you'd be surprised how many people offer unasked-for advice or judgment on the subject. I'm not blind to the eye rolls, the meaningful glance to someone with whom "a conversation" has been had or the not-so-subtle whispered conversation or snort. 

"Yes," I think to myself, "I'm still feeding my kid on demand. Yes, she's 17 months old. Get over it." 

I'm getting really good at ignoring/not listening to know-it-alls. These days, I can shut the door on proselytizers of The Church of Me (so many members!) without thinking twice about my own rudeness. But it's easy to ignore when your proof, in all its blinding, sparkling, gloriously healthy beauty is cuddled and contentedly nursing in your lap.

So, dear boobies, thank you for a job well-done. I'm looking forward to the day I can once again call you mine. And this time around, I promise to be a better friend than I was to you in high school.

As a matter of fact, I (or at least my bra) will be your biggest supporter.

 

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I am a writer and lazy artist who loves travel, architecture and design. Right now, I'm into photography. My fabulous husband (a.k.a. The Varmint) and I are also the principals of a San Diego-based creative agency - and new parents to the divine Baby Mak. Read More >