Dear Boobs of Mine,
You are a sorry excuse for a rack. You always have been. You’ve let me down ever since I was 13 when other girls had real lumps under their sweaters and you could only be classified as itty bitty bumps. The mean boys made fun of girls with smallies and ogled girls with biggies. You were part of the reason for my low self-esteem for years. I thought maybe you’d balloon up one day, but surprise, surprise…you failed me.
You’re just a pair of failures. Nothing more, nothing less.
Anyway, I learned to live with small boobs. I bought padded bras. Wonderbras. Went bra-less at times. I tried to embrace whatever good I could find in having tiny ta-tas. Sure, there were times that I dreamed of filling you up with giant saline implants, but eventually I grew up and grew to accept and respect both of you for what you were.
Jugs. Funny word we use for boobs, since “jugs” is commonly associated with milk, right? I assumed that ONE day, you would at least serve a friggin’ purpose if you couldn’t just look cute in a low-cut shirt, for crying out loud. You knew this day would come. You knew that you would be called upon to do a very important job. You knew that your obligation to me was primarily cosmetic, but what about the kids, guys? Er, girls? I gave you a pass for drying up 6 months into nursing Theo because
I the dada slipped up and got me pregnant. My hormones were wacko and you didn’t know what to do so you shut down. I.Get.It.
But what’s your excuse now? Why are you on a mission to deprive sweet little Dexter of your glorious milk? He’s only 8 months old. You have made it this far (thanksforthatbytheway), so what’s 4 more months? I won’t do this to you again. Or at least I’m not planning to. You loathed being engorged and deflated (lather, rinse, repeat) and the stretch marks that were left behind. I know you are sick of being sucked on by a tiny human. You are completely annoyed by being crammed into the dumb pump flanges for 30 minutes, 4 times a day, 4 days a week. You hate wearing stupid crinkly paper diapers, just in case you spring a leak. You hate being bound by ugly nursing bras. I HATE ALL THOSE THINGS TOO. Don’t you get it?
You know that quote from Spider-Man, “with great power comes great responsibility”?
I haven’t asked that much from you in life. Like I said before, I accepted your faults. All I wanted was to make it to one year of breastfeeding with ONE of my kids. Since
I the dada admittedly ruined Theo’s chances, clearly you were supposed to step up here and keep the milk flowing for 12 months with Dexter.
Worst boobs ever.
I don’t know what your deal is but I can see that you are not going to be persuaded to make
more enough milk by my drinking teas and popping pills. And for that, stupid tits, you have disappointed me to the brink of devastation. I can’t beg you anymore than I have already begged you. I can’t stimulate you anymore than I have already stimulated you. I can’t keep reminding you to make milk – it is your one job in life and you have failed.
I am losing respect in you every time I pump and watch 1 or 2 ounces dribble out of your idiotic nips. I will keep pumping you for every ounce for as long as it’s worth it, but I have a feeling that your breastfeeding abilities are diminishing rather rapidly. Piss poor excuse for boobs, you’re breaking my heart. I’ll never understand you. Either of you.