I’m pretty sure that if you are a woman who has grown a child or two or three inside of your body, you have once or twice perhaps mentioned ways in which those pregnancies have forever ruined certain body parts. When I was pregnant with Son, varicose veins started popping out of my leg and they frightened me. When I was pregnant with Daughter, those veins only got larger and larger and they frightened not only me, but poor, unsuspecting strangers who couldn’t help but stare and ask me, What is happening to your leg? THE MAGIC OF LIFE, LADY. Leave me alone. The sole benefit of the veins, which strangely only popped out on my right leg, was that I had On Demand Leg Rubbing from Husband. Much to my relief, and I’m sure Husband’s, the veins did chill out after birth and although they still exist, I can now wear shorts in public without scaring old ladies before they tell me to put some socks on my kids.
But the unsightly veins were not the only thing to disappear. Down went the veins and down went the boobs. Yep...after ballooning up for nine months, then another nine months or so of being swollen, tender, and leaky, the boobs...well, they just...slowly deflated. At first you think it must be your imagination. You look this way in the mirror, you look that way in the mirror...the boobs are still there, right? But then, one day while standing in line at Trader Joe’s, you feel your Godforsaken Strapless Bra...sliding...slowly down your body. And then you start to notice how all of your bras suddenly seem so big. And then you have a pity party for yourself as you lament to your girlfriends and your Husband about how it’s just not FAIR that the reward for bearing and breastfeeding children is NOT those wonderful big breasts that grew during pregnancy, but instead, these small, almost apologetic boobs that have replaced them. The only hope of having boobs again is to just go ahead and get pregnant. And that just seems selfish. Not to mention messy.
So instead of getting knocked up, you shuffle over to the Lingerie Department where some Perky Bra Girl with too much makeup on will measure you and gently pat you on the back while you cry. She then proceeds to inform you about amazing bra technology and uses words like ‘padded’ and ‘lift’ a little too frequently. After handing you the three bras she managed to find in your size, she reminds you that you can always special order online, then closes the door and laughs.
Standing there in the dressing room, a neon sign seems to flash across the mirror screaming BOOB JOB! BOOB JOB! BOOB JOB! And for a few moments, it seems completely reasonable. I mean, why not? Why shouldn’t we all have perky, happy boobs? After all, I’m not asking for some Pamela Anderson, Real Housewife Boob Action; just your every day, round, bouncy, boob action. I want my boobs to fill out a t-shirt, not my amazingly padded, lifted bra. Don’t I deserve that? Don’t we all deserve that?
Although I’m sure Husband would agree that perky, happy boobs would be fun, a boob job is very, very, very low on the list of priorities...if it even exists at all. (Besides, I would totally get those veins sucked out of my legs before anything else.) So instead of getting down on myself about the boobs or the veins or the stretch marks or that bit of belly fat that refuses to budge...I will try to remember that all of my imperfections are simply a reminder of my two perfections...my children. And let’s face it, I’d give up not only my boobs, but my life, for those two little people.
