By: Bethany Reed
Updated: August 13, 2015
Originally Published: August 1, 2011
Once upon a time, my breasts were incredibly reliable. They obeyed my commands, stayed in place, and required little oversight. They held their position with pride and, in a nutshell, were utterly dependable.
However, after nursing five children, I began to notice some rebellion among my once-loyal assets. They started to sag in ways that I never thought possible. Now, they can be rolled up like a burrito, and every morning, getting dressed feels like I’m stuffing a Thanksgiving turkey. They’ve lost their former vigilance; I can’t even describe them as merely “relaxed.” They’re so indolent that once I position them, they can point in any direction imaginable. My final glance in the mirror before heading out now includes checking for a “lazy boob” situation. Sometimes, people look at my chest and seem confused about where to focus, as they can point in totally different directions. It’s hard for me to concentrate, and I can only imagine the bewilderment of an innocent bystander. Yet, none of these little acts of defiance compare to the ultimate betrayal my breasts committed.
I have a penchant for buying Groupons. I often purchase them, forget about them, and then scramble to redeem them at the last moment before they expire. I can be quite reliable in my Groupon chaos. By sheer luck, I bought a Groupon for a massage as a birthday treat and forgot to book an appointment until the week it expired. The only available therapist was a male masseuse, whom I affectionately refer to as my “mansuesse.” Prior to having kids, I loved booking appointments with a mansuesse. They have strong hands, apply just the right amount of pressure, and, best of all, they don’t chatter the entire time. In my pre-baby days, I imagined I was probably the highlight of their massage-giving experience. Now, however, I felt compelled to warn the poor guy about what he was about to encounter. “Five kids… the old grey mare isn’t what she used to be.” Nevertheless, I bravely booked my last-minute session with this new mansuesse and hoped for the best.
Initially, everything went smoothly. My mansuesse asked about my preferences, and once the massage began, I was blissfully silent for the entire hour. However, when I was flipped onto my back and he lifted my arm to work on my shoulders, my breast, which had been discreetly tucked beneath the sheets, decided to make a grand exit. In my earlier days, my breasts would have remained steadfast in their designated spot. But today, they had other plans. I could almost hear George Michael in the background singing, “Freedom, freedom…” as my breasts clamored for attention.
I lay still for what felt like an eternity, but was probably only a second, contemplating my next move. I decided that complete denial was the best strategy. I reasoned that the old philosophical question of “If a tree falls in the forest…” applied here too. “If I keep my eyes closed and never actually see the exposed breast, then I can neither confirm nor deny that it happened.” Lying there, trying to breathe normally, I did my best impression of a relaxed client. I’m pretty sure my mansuesse wasn’t convinced, but I thought if I just pretended it didn’t occur, perhaps he wouldn’t notice either. The absurdity of that thought strikes home especially given that we’re not talking about petite ‘A’ cups here; these are post-five-babies ‘DD’ cups. It was like a giant bowl of Jello jigglers crashing onto the kitchen counter—impossible not to notice. Still, I played the fool and told myself to “Just keep breathing.” Meanwhile, I cursed my rebellious breasts and vowed never to get a massage again.
In a split second, my tactful mansuesse lowered my arm and discreetly pulled the blanket back up, not stopping until it nearly reached my neck. I could practically hear my breasts sigh with relief as they were returned to captivity. I’m convinced my defiant assets left a lasting impression on that poor man. When my hour was finally up and I had managed to re-secure everything, I exited the massage room with wide eyes. I expected horror on his face, but instead, he offered me a glass of water and asked, “Would you like to book your next appointment?” I could hardly conceal my shock. I quickly reprimanded my breasts once more, told myself to gather my courage, and booked my next massage… right after I left a ridiculously generous tip.
This experience has taught me to always prepare for the unexpected when it comes to my breasts. Who knows when they might decide to make another surprise appearance? In the meantime, I’ll keep getting massages from the same man. After all, what’s left to lose? Still, I can’t help but chuckle every time he pulls the sheets up a little higher. Well played, rebellious breasts. Well played indeed.
For more insights and humorous tales about life post-baby, check out this blog post on unexpected body changes. And if you’re considering helping your fertility journey, Make a Mom offers excellent at-home insemination syringe kits. Additionally, the NHS provides great resources on pregnancy and home insemination.
Summary
In this light-hearted reflection, Bethany Reed shares her humorous journey with her post-baby body, specifically her rebellious breasts that have taken on a life of their own. From awkward moments during a massage to the unexpected challenges of motherhood, she embraces the chaos with laughter and resilience.
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