Oh, Gawd. Bewbs again.

For those of you who know me in real life, I hereby warn you that I am about to talk about my boobs. Again. You may click away now, or read at your own risk.

Catherine breastfed another woman's child this weekend. If you don't know the story and would like to, it can be found here. It's not directly related, but it's got me thinking.

I have two breasts. My momma has one. My friend has none. I still have two that I should be grateful for.

They are mine. I grew them. I have lived with them for almost 25 years now. For most of those years I hid them. I wore baggy shirts and sweaters that were too big. I was uncomfortable with the attention they garnered.

It was more attention than I ever received myself. In fact, this space is even overshadowed by them, with the most searched hits coming from "ginormous boobs" or some incarnation thereof.I suppose that is also because I continue to talk about them.

The first time my husband, then new boyfriend, saw them in just a camisole, he blurted, "My God! They're ginormous!" I quickly put the baggier shirt back on and slunk down in my seat. I wanted the focus to remain on me, not them. Betrayed by my breasts once again.

Only I wasn't. After the initial shock, he went right back to talking to me. My face, rather. He held my hand, put his arm around me, all without copping that oops-feel that even some of my friends' husbands have been guilty of copping. Later, I learned that Kevin's reaction to the girls and their girth was in fact just shock. He actually just considered it a big bonus and gave me reason to believe it too. And since my mother reads this blog, I will stop there.

After I became a mother, I expected to have an epiphany about my breasts. Learn the "real" purpose they serve. Open the heavens and sound the trumpets: breastfeeding. My boobies were created to be a food source to my babies. I would magically begin to respect them and they in turn would learn their place in this world. Which was about four inches lower than I had hoped for, but whatever.

The thing is, I don't think the heavens opened, and I don't think they were made just to feed babies.

You see, I have these hands. Two of them. They type, they play the piano, they change diapers, they bathe a child, they prepare meals, they clean this house. They do a multitude of things for every different part of my being. The writer, the musician, the mother, the wife, all use these hands.

It is the same with my breasts. They are functional; feeding my child. They are sexual; just ask my husband. They are decorative; clothes fit better with them than without them. They are all of these things to me.

The boobies belong to me. If I want to use them to feed my child, I can. If I want to use them to pump milk for another child, I can. If I want to use them to nurse another child, I can. If I want to use them to try and sell albums, I can. If I want to use them to reach orgasm, I can. If I want to use them to keep my toes warm, I can in another few years, I'm sure.

They belong to me. Yours belong to you. And no one. No one should be telling us what we should or shouldn't be doing with them.

Because rock stars love boobies

There weren't many benches at the NAMM show. There were more babies than I expected. And there were 100 times as many tattoos as I expected.

At one point, Christopher needed to eat. He was tired and hungry, but Guy and Lovely were still looking around. No problem, I said. I would just go find a bench, sit down, nurse him, and let him nap in my lap for awhile.

Only there were no free benches.

I thought for sure that if I walked up with a crying baby, parked my stroller next to a bench and stood there for a minute, that someone would get up and offer me a seat.

Not a chance.

My victims were two old dudes who were enjoying their pre-lunch Bloody Mary's. They looked up at me as if my child was disturbing their hangovers with his crying. I turned my back a little more to them so I could aim the wailing more in their direction.

Five minutes this went on. I stood there shushing, bouncing, and rocking my baby, waiting for anyone, particularly the men closest to me, to get up and give me a seat.

It never happened.

So I sat on the ground against the wall, popped out my boobie and started to nurse him.

HOLY HELL! A TIT IS ON THE LOOSE!

Those men jumped up with their drinks faster than if I had poked them with a branding iron. One of them diverted his eyes and asked if I would like to have his seat.

Um, no. I had just gotten settled down on the ground and the baby was finally content and nursing. Had you asked five minutes ago? I would have said yes.

I'm exaggerating a little bit. I didn't exactly pop my boobie out. I have become very discreet at nursing in public. The only reason those men even noticed was because the crying had stopped. It wasn't like I was flashing a big ole milk dripping titty all over the place.

Because Lord knows, showing breasts at NAMM is a terribly distasteful idea.

Oh wait a minute, no it's not.

There were DOZENS of women who were walking around showing more boobage than I was while nursing. Boobs are the number one marketing tool of music merchandise. You know, because they have something to do with guitars?

The only thing, by the way, that boobs have to do with guitars is if you buy an Ovation. The back is rounded, and it rolls up over big boobs leaving you playing it like a levitating steel string guitar. I'm not sure how that would help their marketing though.

But please. PLEASE. Would someone please explain to me why it is alright to show boobs hanging out left and right and up and down when it is to sell guitars, but it is not okay to flash the tiniest bit of breast when feeding your child?

I was going to post pictures as examples and link to some of the companies who use breasts and guitars as phallic symbols as marketing. Then I reconsidered giving them the traffic.

It did feel pretty empowering though, watching all the guys walk by and get all flustered when they realized I was breastfeeding my child. I laughed out loud when one young guy actually asked the hootchie he was walking with if I was allowed to do that in there. Seeing as how I could tell you what kind of wax she had last gotten due to the length, or lack thereof, of her skirt, I don't think she was exactly the person to be asking your questions of appropriateness.

My breasts have always drawn unwanted attention from men. This time? At least the last laugh was on them. I finally don't care who looks at them or for how long. Besides, they are just breasts. What I really don't want you looking at is my belly or the bags under my eyes. So stare away if you like. I'll even tell you what size they are.

They serve a purpose now. A beautiful and miraculous purpose.

And it isn't selling guitars.

Weeeee-nors, as my brother would call them

I held a couple of contests a million years ago. You might not even remember. One was the "Bird Pool." The other was the "Guess how big my knockers are going to get."

Thrilling, I know.

The long awaited announcement is before you.

Katy, who I'm assuming is the wonderful Katy from Mom22Teens is the winner of the Bird Pool. She was eerily accurate. Much more so than even my Turkish psychic friend. Katy, if you will email me, I'll send you a lovely Sirius radio as your prize. You have to activate it, but if you do, it might give you access to the outside world unheard of in your land of dial up and mountains. Hee hee.

The winner of the Boob Pool is Stephanie from Lawyer Mama. She has probably forgotten that she even rendered a guess, but she was pretty close. My nursing bras have settled in at a lovely 38H. WooHoo! Stephanie, if you will email me, I'll send you the Pennyrich Bra Patch t-shirt I promised.

Thus endeth the contests. Congratulations, ladies, and thank you to everyone who participated!

Goldilocks needs a t-shirt

On the off chance that a bored fashion designer might read this post, I have a request.

I would like to have some fitted t-shirts that allow for a large chest. I'm stuck wearing t-shirts that still look like maternity shirts, swimming all around my midsection, just so I can fit my boobs in them. I am ready to look put together again. Please.

These t-shirts would be more generous in the bust. The arm holes would be adjusted so that the shirt isn't stretched out of shape in the armpits. The shoulder line would fall a little lower to give the illusion that my shoulders are wider than my breasts (which they aren't).

The cute cap sleeves would be a little bit longer so that they at least reach my bust line. Bare arms next to boobs accentuate them even more.

Most of all, these t-shirts would be longer so that they don't ride up over the top of my pants. My boobs take up so much of a t-shirt that the poor shirt that I need little suspenders at the bottom of the shirt just to keep it from constantly climbing up my belly. I got over showing belly exactly 12 weeks ago today.

I am 35 years old. My postpartum body is alright with me. Really, it is.

I would like, however, some t-shirts that fit.

Maybe they exist already and I just haven't found them? If you know of any, please leave me a link. I'm due to be locked up by the fashion police any day now.

Because I can't believe it myself

At the pediatrician's office today:

Doctor: I don't see any signs of thrush.

Me: Are you sure? Because my breasts hurt so badly. Like I would rather be in labor again than have my breasts hurt this badly.

Doctor: And you're sure you want to continue breastfeeding?

Me: (after initial stun of question wore off) Absolutely I do, and I will.

Doctor: Well, they're your boobs, not mine.


OH MY DEAR GOD. He actually said those exact words to me. Perhaps I am still hormonally sensitive???

Or PERHAPS NOT?

Please. Weigh in. Would you be taken aback if your older than dirt pediatrician actually taunted you about your persistence in breastfeeding? And used the word BOOB? I mean, I use it all the time, but the letters M.D. don't follow my name either.

Let's discuss, shall we?

And you don't have to tell me to get a new pediatrician. It's already in the works.

What I thought would come naturally. Not so much.

In a rare moment of two handed typing, I find myself wondering exactly what I need to unload here. There is a post about breastfeeding that I have been sporadically working over the past couple of weeks. In general, it details all the outside obstacles that I have encountered while simply trying to feed my child. It lists the number of heath care professionals who have told me to just use formula. Use a pacifier. Switch to bottles.

It was quite a surprise to me.

What was an even bigger surprise is how I've had to try and convince not just everyone around me that breastfeeding is worth the effort, but how I've had to convince my own body that it's worth the effort.

After a week of engorgement, Christopher was hungry. This is why he was screaming. The poor child was hungry. He had not been able to get the milk I was producing. I had pumped to soften them. Run hot water over them. Placed hot packs on them before feeding. I thought he was eating. He was staying at the breast for an hour or more, but wasn't getting what he needed.

Let me tell you - sitting in a doctor's office and being told that you have been starving your child, and that is why he has been crying? He could have just taken a scalpel and cut my heart out.

And once again, I was told that I needed to start him on formula.

We haven't. We did start using the breastmilk I had in the freezer in bottles and alternated nursing and bottles to make sure he was getting enough to eat.

Then, something I never imagined would happen, happened. For some reason, my breasts decided they were no longer needed and went on vacation. I was pumping on Thursday to try and make his next meal, and got nothing. Not even enough to cover the bottom of a bottle. The girls were on strike.

I was ready to punt the pediatrician and the long list of every piece of advice I had received. Even the source of some of my biggest support emailed me to tell me that it was my own fault I had dried up. That she told me not to use bottles. I was beyond rational and spent the next long hours sobbing and panicking over my empty breasts.

I did what I should have done from day one before there even was an issue. I hired a lactation consultant.

Now, as often as possible, but at the very least, every 3 hours from start to start, we are feeding our child. Guy and I both. Baby at the breast until he empties them or pisses himself off trying. Then, the syringe and tubing at the breast with expressed breast milk until he is full.

Before, during, and after feedings, Christopher gets weighed. Guy helps position him and holds the syringe. He thaws and warms the milk. He changes the diapers in between. He holds Christopher after feedings so that I can then pump to encourage my breasts to start making milk again.

But he goes back to work again Monday, and I find myself wondering how I'm going to continue this on my own. I need four more hands. And I need to figure out how I'm supposed to sleep and keep this up.

And tonight, we will run out of expressed breast milk. As much as I know that plenty of babies have been raised on formula, and it isn't Satan's spit as some breast feeding advocates would have you believe? I don't want to feed my child formula. I just don't. I don't want good enough for him. I want the absolute best.

I know there is a lot of wisdom out there, but I'm turning off comments for this. I just can't bear another piece of advice right now. I swear to you that I've heard them all. The herbs, the pumping, the beer, diet, rest, prescriptions and everything else. Even my favorite piece of advice for how to get pregnant is back. Just relax. Oh please.

But I have a plan now and a lactation consultant that I trust.

So I'm just going to keep at it and know that you are silently cheering me on for this round.

Not surprisingly, it is time to go feed my child. If you could say a little prayer that the well isn't dry, I would greatly appreciate it.

You should talk about boobs too

I never thought I would talk about boobs so much on this blog.

Of course I never thought my boobs would get to serve a purpose. I didn't expect to get to have children. Now, I sit, Bird tippy tapping just below my belly button, and I'm peeking over my chest at the computer screen. These boobs have grown to mammoth proportions, getting ready to perform the most important task in the world. Feeding my child.

Right now, women all over the blogosphere are uniting to speak up about breasts. So many of us have been talking about how you don't have to have a lump to have breast cancer. Now though, we are talking about breast feeding.

Facebook, MySpace, Applebee's, Delta Airlines, all have brought their companies under the wrath of mothers everywhere by treating breast feeding as something dirty. Something that needed to be covered and hidden. Something that we should be ashamed of.

I don't have accounts on Facebook or MySpace. I would rather lick the bottom of some movie theater seats than have to eat at Applebees. And I fly American because there is more leg room on some of their planes. I'm all leg. And boob.

I can't even talk about Bill Mahr. It makes me too mad. Someone should wax that man's balls. With really really hot wax.

But I can post the button. And let you know that if you post breastfeeding pictures or you want to breastfeed while you shop, eat, blog - go for it. It's not bothering me one bit.

While I considered joining in and posting a picture of the acres of dairy farm that have taken up residence, there is no baby yet. So I am refraining. No baby, no boobs. So sorry. I don't have access to a wide angle lens anyway.

I joke a lot about my breasts now. I mean, they are crazy huge now, and some days, all I can do is laugh because my shoulders and back hurt, and I look a bit cartoonish. Pictures of me look photoshopped with my tiny head and overwhelming chest. It's hard to find clothes that fit, and I look a good 20 pounds heavier than I really am, just because of the chest.

But to honest. Completely honest, I'm not laughing at them all the time. I'm not ashamed of them. I'm actually kind of proud of them. It's like they are really rising to the occasion. Well, they aren't really rising I suppose.

But they are real, and they are fabulous.

At least that's what I hear. From the guy, called Guy, sitting to my left.

Guy, and those construction workers I walked past downtown today. Awesome.

A contest, a haiku, and more about my boobs

My friend and I just got done from a lovely morning of bra shopping and lunch. We are both hard to fit, but for opposite reasons.

I am to the point where I take a bra off at the end of the day, and it leaves an imprint of every seam or piece of lace in the cup. Textured boobs. Lovely. So I figured it was time to buy one or two more to last me the next couple of months.

Turns out, we do indeed need a new adjective. G is for ginormous won't fit anymore, quite literally. Today I purchased as 36I. Yep. I.

Remembering that it is Haiku Friday, I submit my humble lines here:

My boobs are so large
I believe each weighs 10 pounds
Sure hope Bird's hungry.

T and I decided that I should have a contest. A boob pool, if you will. Here are the rules:

1. In the comments, take a guess at what you think the girls will require one week after giving birth. Right now, at 21 weeks, we are at 36I. Pre-pregnancy was 36DDD.
2. If you are a "no-reply" comment leaver, please include your email address. Otherwise, I can't let you know if you win.
3. By Valentine's Day, 2008 (I'm giving myself some leeway here because of the whole first time giving birth and all), I'll choose a winner from the correct guesses. I'll put the names into one of my bra cups and draw the winner at random.
4. The winner will receive a t-shirt from the Pennyrich Bra Patch. As of right now, she only sells Mediums and Smalls, so I can't promise it will be a t-shirt that fits you, but I asked her if she would order more today. She said she might, because the frat boys from NCSU love them. They are awesome shirts. T got one today, and she said I could post a picture of her in hers.
5. You have to guess before I write another post about my boobs, which could be anywhere from a week to a couple of months, depending on how much humor they provide me with.
   

That's it. A simple little contest. That won't be done until February, but hey. You know you want a Pennyrich Bra Patch t-shirt.