Dear Breasts,
I have mixed feelings at the moment as our relationship is changing once again. When I was young, I wished you'd grow bigger. When I got older, I thanked my lucky stars that you didn't! And then I got busy and didn't think much of you at all.
You got squished into a sports bra, inverted during yoga, pummeled by soccer balls, accidentally punched, and always the first place to get sunburned. And if all that abuse wasn't enough, then comes the baby and pumping!
I don't know why but I thought (and prayed) that I would not get those National Geographic flat dangling pancake boobs. You know what I'm talking about. Pregnancy makes you her bitch, though. She stretches you to rhe limit, heats you up like a furnace, and makes your bones ache. To grow a miracle of a person is hard work and it changes all aspects of a woman, physically and mentally. Intuition and inexperience tell you it will be different after the baby comes, but not to the extent you realize after cradling your child several months later.
Breasts, you have changed and I don't recognize you anymore. You along with the rest of my body are foreign and I wonder now if I look like just another middle-aged mother. I haven't accepted it yet and I feel as if that's betraying my body after all it has been through. How could I not be thankful and appreciative? I think the reason is this: my identity has been somewhat diluted. The focus for the last 15 months have been on the baby and being a mother. It's no wonder that I'm not quite sure who I see in the mirror anymore.
But 15 months is a long time, and with breastfeeding behind me, now is a good time to start.
Breasts, you have worked hard to nurture and comfort my baby. I am thankful for that.
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