Dripping and Drooping
the short history of my tits
My boobs serve many purposes. The very first of their purposes was to prove their worthiness of being held by hand-me-down Power Puff Girls training bras. The second was to fill these handed down training bras and earn the name of “doo-dads” or “mosquito bites.” The third being to grow a fanbase of little boys entering puberty, followed closely by becoming an added page to some little girl’s Burn Book because she wanted some like mine (maybe). The next to be too often shamed for being more outgoing than others approved of. Then, to be wrapped in some cheap vintage lingerie and used as some undeserving wanna-be man’s toy. And finally, the most exciting and definitely much more wholesome purpose: to feed my baby girl.
Most young women wouldn’t be all that jolly about their side boob having more crease than perk, but me, oh, I’m finna turn up. Actually, I can’t lie, some days I look at pictures of my early boobs in awe… But most days, I am grateful to be able to witness the true purpose of a boob.
Breastfeeding is hard. And not many people choose to stick with it for many, many valid reasons. For me, those first three months, I got through just by telling myself just one more day; meanwhile, every one more day I would look at a new formula to try, always unable to justify the price, or get myself to follow through on pressing the checkout button. I thugged it out. And I had good support to keep me going: a responsive lactation consultant, a postpartum doula (who was also a lactation consultant), a close friend who dedicated herself to researching for her own breastfeeding journey and sharing tips and tricks, and a supportive Instagram community — @thebreastfeedingmentor & @milkymamallc. Once I got past those first 3 months, it really didn’t get any easier. It was just no longer a matter of learning the latch anymore. It became a mental game: a test of my willingness to wake up everyday committed. So, as motivation, I committed myself to keeping a hefty stock of breastfeeding brownies that were meant to “increase my milk supply.” Those brownies were my morning coffee. I couldn’t wait to carefully rip that package open and sink my teeth into the richness. And if I ran out before ordering again, I would crave them. I remember coming real close to yelling at their customer service for shipping my box to the wrong address. I was a breastfeeding brownie fiend. Until one day, I didn’t need them anymore.
I really don’t have an addictive personality. I tend to be able to stop and listen to my body when it tells me “no.” So, once I got to the point of really not liking the taste of chocolate anymore, I let them go and realized how much I do enjoy having a little human suckling the life force out of my body through a few small holes in my nipple :) Though it sounds like torture, and sometimes feels like it too (mostly in the middle of the night), it’s amazing to see this living thing grow solely from my boob juice for 6 months, and then continuing to grow with a combination of solids and milk, and using my boob as comfort while her teeth come in and she begins learning to be a bit more independent in the world.
Oftentimes when I reminisce on my birthing experience, the lack of control that I felt, the amount of times I, inevitably, let go of the original plan, I really appreciate myself for not letting this one thing, this one early intention go, like I’ve done so many of the other decisions I thought I’d be able to make happen as a tired mother.
I’m happy to be a milk leaking, droopy tittied, touched out, baby comforting, nursing mama. And I cry sometimes thinking about her no longer asking for boobie in the future.
THANK YOU. THANK YOU. THANK YOU.
Abby xx