When I was young, I used to wish for big boobs—terrific, tantalizing ta-tas like all the girls in movies seemed to have. I often asked myself: Wouldn’t I be the most popular girl at my middle school prom if I had giant melons instead of these prepubescent raisins?
Sadly, I wouldn’t realize until many years and three breast-fed kids later that huge boobies aren’t everything they’re cracked up to be. Which is why, without further ado, I present to you: An Ode to My Milk Boobs.
In many ways, Milk Boobs, you are exactly what my younger self always dreamed you would be: round, shapely, firm, and massive. Dolly Parton and Pamela Anderson might have enormous bazongas, but seriously, they have nothing on you. However, while you do elicit long and unabashed stares from infants and thirteen-year-old boys alike, what’s going on under the surface is more the stuff of nightmares than dreams.
Sure, you can fill out a sweater like a boss, but once the clothes are off, you become quite the mess. Your skin is like a veritable road map of blue veins and purple stretch marks, all surrounding nipples the size of dinner plates that don’t even come close to pointing in the same direction. And thanks to three finicky infants, you are so asymmetrical that it would be reasonable to assume a mad scientist sewed boobs from two different people onto my body. I’m pretty sure Franken-boobs weren’t what twelve-year-old me pictured during her flat-chested fantasies.
Hey, Milk Boobs, speaking of sweaters: while I am never lacking in the cleavage department, you have nevertheless effectively destroyed my entire wardrobe. Remember all those sophisticated clothes I couldn’t wear until I had the knockers to pull them off? Well, silk, suede, satin, and chiffon are now off-limits, thanks to the ongoing threat of permanent and embarrassing milk stains.
I’ll never understand how, if I so much as look at you the wrong way in public, you let out a geyser-like squirt of milk onto any surface within three feet of where I’m sitting. Yet the moment I attempt to hook you up to a breast pump in order to attend some swanky event without my infant in tow, you clam up tighter than a mobster in a police interrogation. Why, Milk Boobs?
Let’s say I did manage to stuff the majority of your side-boob flesh into my little black dress. Unfortunately, I would never be able to hide the atrocity that is my oversized nursing brassiere. Yes, that’s right. I said “brassiere.” Because an undergarment this ugly and complicated can only be described by its full name. The diminutive “bra” just doesn’t do justice to a beastly contraption that requires no fewer than 14 clasps to keep you guys from bursting out of it.
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Luckily, being sexy isn’t exactly a priority for me right now. Somehow, despite the fact that you are SO sensitive that taking a shower feels like nails raining on my nipples, the moment things start to heat up in the bedroom, all sensation drains from you like your milk into my baby’s mouth. You become useless, numb appendages that swing around like wrecking balls, dragging me ineffectually behind you. We lost a perfectly good lamp that way.
I do have to admit, Milk Boobs, that you have been absolutely wonderful at feeding my children. You have nourished them, comforted them, and even provided cozy pillows during impromptu naps. For that I am eternally grateful. The kids, on the other hand, now repay your selflessness by using you as climbing steps, punching bags, and toy storage units.
I suppose in many ways you, like all misunderstood artists who live fast and die young, are underappreciated in your time. Sure, you are so swollen that it looks like I’m about to topple over at any moment, but you have always been there when I needed you. I appreciate that you cram nicely into a push-up bra and, so far, remain perched well above my waistline.
You may not be beautiful, Milk Boobs, or even average, but you are mine, and one day soon you will be gone. Poof. My much-maligned, lovely, squishy Milk Boobs will be replaced by something far more sinister: Saggy Tube-Sock-Full-of-Marbles Boobs. You know, the ones that look like deflated balloons filled with lumpy mashed potatoes?
You, my hefty hooters, will be missed.
So for now, Milk Boobs, no matter my complaints, take this opportunity to show us everything you’ve got. Live life to its fullest, let your milk down, and let it all hang out! Literally.