I can’t pinpoint the exact moment, but I was certain you would be mine one day, somehow. If only you could comprehend how fervently I wished for your arrival to transform my life. Each night before slipping into slumber, I envisioned your presence, hoping to conjure you into being with sheer willpower. I sent pleas into the cosmos like flares. “Please, please, please… grant me this one favor, and I’ll be eternally grateful. I’ll do anything.” I imagined you vividly in my mind—round and soft, a delightful bundle resting sweetly on my chest.
But for all that effort, something went awry, because you turned out to be nothing like what I had envisioned. What I longed for and what I received were, quite frankly, two very different realities. My ideal was the kind of boobs I’d seen in magazines, gracing the bodies of bikini-clad models or the ones bouncing ahead of Pamela Anderson in her Baywatch swimsuit. I never once looked at my boyish 12-year-old self in the mirror and thought, “I wish I had mom boobs!” Yet here we are: tangerines in tube socks. I acknowledge we don’t always get what we want, but the disparity here is glaring. I feel cheated, and I’m pretty sure I’m not alone in this.
So, mom boobs, we need to talk.
First off, your timing was atrocious. You made me wait until I was 15. While all my friends were blossoming in their bras and bikinis, I resembled an ironing board. Back then, I hadn’t yet realized that boys should appreciate me for my intellect and my sarcastic sense of humor, so your absence led me to despair that I’d never secure a prom date. I imagined myself as a lonely old maid surrounded by cats, because who would want to date an ironing board? Nobody.
When you finally made your entrance, you did so half-heartedly. (Uh, half-boobed it? Whatever.) You arrived, but just barely. I had to compensate for your meager presence with copious, embarrassing padding and went through enough tissues to dry the tears of a thousand flat-chested adolescents. Do you even comprehend the panic a teenage girl feels when she discovers her crumpled Kleenex boob-enhancer has migrated down her sleeve?
You seemed to overcompensate by appearing in a big way (really big, like DD) for some of my friends. But you didn’t do them any favors either. They were always lamenting how inconvenient and uncomfortable you were, squirming in their pokey underwires and layering multiple sports bras just to keep you in check during gym class. You couldn’t have just been a nice, moderate size for everyone, could you? No.
In college, I transitioned from stuffing you with crunched-up paper goods to splurging on “miracle” bras and squishy chicken cutlet inserts. I managed to make you look somewhat decent, but let’s be real: everyone looks halfway decent when they’re young and firm, so I give you no credit for my early 20s cuteness.
Then came pregnancy. Oh, hallelujah! My years of yearning finally paid off because there you were, in all your glory. My A-cup runneth over! But wait—what’s this? You were so sore that even a shower felt like torture. And once that initial pain subsided, you were now competing with a belly the size of a taxi.
Through the years, I nursed my babies, and you grew. And ached. And sprouted the occasional weird hair. You leaked at the most inconvenient moments, like during my husband’s family reunion, where I chatted for half an hour oblivious to two massive wet spots blooming on my shirt. Your size fluctuated with every pregnancy and my lingerie drawer became a chaotic collection of hideous nursing bras in a range of sizes that could span the first half of the alphabet.
When my last baby weaned, I thought, “This is it! My boobs are finally mine again, and I can flaunt some nice cleavage in a pretty bra.” Sure, your sides bore the scars of purple stretch marks from all that fluctuation, but you were still larger than you’d ever been. The fantasy I’d envisioned as a breast-deficient preteen was finally going to come true!
Except it didn’t. When it was all said and done, you decided to lay on my chest like a pair of tired socks. You shrank to mere floppy shadows of your former selves, resting on my ribcage as if to say, “Whew! Our work here is done. Peace out.”
Now, I have to tuck you into a bra. You flop lazily toward my armpits when I lie down and droop when I sit, as if trying to get a better look at my belly button. After all these years of trying to make you look good, this is the gratitude I get? Your outright refusal to cooperate is frustrating.
I begrudgingly admit you have technically fulfilled your biological role by nurturing my children—so thanks, I guess. I know life offers no guarantees, and as long as you’re healthy, I should be grateful. But could you at least try to muster a little perkiness? I’ll work on toning my pecs and invest in some decent bras if you can do your part to look a bit less… defeated. Don’t let gravity get the better of you just yet. We still have a lot of years ahead of us together.
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Summary:
This humorous reflection on the evolution of motherhood and body image dives into the journey of “mom boobs” from wishful thinking to the reality of postpartum changes. It captures the struggles of maintaining self-esteem amidst the physical changes that accompany motherhood, all while retaining a light-hearted tone about the often frustrating yet rewarding experiences of being a mom.