From the moment I began dreaming of motherhood, I envisioned a world where you would be mine—a little being who would transform my life. Each night, I would close my eyes and imagine your arrival, pouring every ounce of longing into the universe, hoping to pull you into existence. I would send out wishes like shooting stars: “If you grant me this one desire, I promise to be eternally grateful.” I could picture you clearly, a soft bundle resting peacefully on my chest.
However, reality turned out to be quite different from my expectations. What I envisioned was a pair of breasts akin to those I saw in glossy magazines—perfectly rounded and youthful, just like the ones decorating the chests of beach beauties. At no point during my awkward teenage years did I ever think, “I wish I had mom boobs!” Yet here we are—more like tangerines in tube socks than the glamorous images I had in mind. It seems life has a way of subverting our desires, and I can’t help but feel a little cheated.
Oh, mom boobs, I have several grievances with you.
Firstly, your timing was atrocious. I didn’t see you until I was 15, while my friends were blossoming into their womanhood. I felt like an ironing board while they filled out their bras and bikinis. Back then, I was still under the delusion that boys would notice me for my looks and not my intellect or humor, and your absence left me convinced I would never get a prom date.
When you finally made your grand entrance, it was underwhelming. You showed up, but I had to rely on padding and layers of tissues to create any semblance of shape. Do you know the panic that ensues when a teenage girl realizes her makeshift enhancement has slipped down her sleeve?
And then, there were my friends—blessed with ample bosoms, yet they faced their own struggles. They lamented about discomfort, constantly adjusting their underwires and layering multiple sports bras just to keep you in check during gym class. You couldn’t have been a nice, average size for everyone, could you?
In college, I transitioned from tissue enhancements to spending a small fortune on “miracle” bras and silicone inserts. I managed to look decent, largely due to the youthful perkiness of my early 20s—so I can’t fully credit you for that.
Then came pregnancy. At last, my dreams materialized! My A-cup aspirations overflowed. But oh, the agony! Soreness made even a warm shower a trial, and any joy was overshadowed by my growing belly.
As the years progressed, I nursed my children, and you grew in size but also discomfort. You sometimes sprouted unexpected hairs and leaked at the most inopportune moments, like during my husband’s family reunion when I discovered two large wet spots on my shirt after chatting for far too long. My size fluctuated with each pregnancy, leading to a drawer full of unattractive nursing bras that spanned nearly every letter of the alphabet.
When my last child weaned, I thought, Finally, my body is mine again! But what greeted me was a shadow of my former self—floppy and worn, lying defeated on my ribcage. Instead of the cleavage I had longed for, I found you sagging like worn-out socks.
After years of effort, this is the thanks I get? A flat-out refusal to cooperate? I suppose I must acknowledge that you fulfilled your biological purpose of nurturing my children, which deserves some gratitude. Still, a little perkiness would be appreciated. I’m willing to work on my own fitness with some pec-toning exercises and invest in good bras, but it would be nice if you could put in some effort too.
We still have many years ahead together, so don’t let gravity have the final say just yet.
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In summary, the journey of motherhood brings with it unexpected changes to the body, particularly when it comes to breasts. While the evolution from youthful expectations to the reality of “mom boobs” may not align with initial dreams, it’s essential to embrace these changes and acknowledge their purpose.