This past weekend I did something I HATE doing…
I bought new bras.
I got my boobs in junior high, 5th grade actually. I would be lying if I said my “girls” and I have a love-hate relationship because mostly, I just hate them.
I read horrible stories about things that happen to boobs when you are pregnant, postpartum, nursing, weaning; pretty much having boobs super-sucks when adding a baby to the mix. I had a strong feeling I wasn’t going to enjoy breastfeeding (as it involves feeding with my breasts), but alas, my son nursed like a champ and made things easy on me.
That is, until pumping or nursing continuously, intensely sore & cracked nipples, and losing sight of my feet under my (insert impressive word for large here) breasts. But routines, habit, and practice in the months that followed made breastfeeding more comfortable and one of the most rewarding experiences during my son’s first year.
However, in early December, the breastfeeding came to an end. Without much fuss from myself or my son, it was over.
Breastfeeding; in like a lion, out like a lamb. But out with the lamb went my breasts! My size 34-D ladies. In keeping with comparing aspects of pregnancy progress to fruit, I went from honeydew melons to small grapefruit, maybe even oranges.
For illustrative purposes:
Although I have always hated my breasts, I always appreciated the fact that some women would pay good money to have them. Taking away the size of my breasts was like taking cash out of my pocket. And to literally take cash out of my pocket, my shirts, blouses, and jackets are much too large and need to be replaced or tailored.
I admit, going down a clothing size or two is not a bad problem to have, but this is new and my OCD is frightened of new. Out with the old, in with the new has always been crazy talk to me. It is my hope that with time, I shall have a love hate relationship with my new “girls.” Hopefully, mostly just love this time.
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