Waxing philosophical about the most unexpected of topics...boobs.

I apologize in advance to my mostly male audience...you may hate this one or you may find common cause. We shall see. 

I am a hormonal wreck right now. My period’s creeping back, and there’s something about that first ovulation while you’re still breastfeeding that turns you into a sentimental puddle.

Am I waxing philosophical on my dad's heart attacks or one of my oldest friends has cancer? Am I focused on the environment or world peace? Nope—I'm focused on my boobs. Well, not even just my boobs, boobs in general.

How did we get here—well, the short answer is that I just got done breastfeeding Ashley and it hit me that in about 4 or 5 months I'm going to wean her and I will never breastfeed again. 

The long answer is that it started when I was a weird little 5-year-old on the beach in Florida and I saw a woman who was so gorgeous because of her boobs; I've been fascinated as an observer ever since. A few years after that my little brother was born, and I used to love watching the peaceful expression on my mom's face as she'd nurse him in the overstuffed rocking chair that has been in my family forever—I knew I wanted that part too.

I used to sit in the bathtub when I was younger and I would literally cup my hands in front of my chest saying, "If they grow this big, I'll be disappointed...but if they grow THIS big, I'll be happy."

I guess me checking out that woman in Florida was a prelude to finding out I'm bisexual because before my own even really came in, I would stare at pics of boobs in magazines and catalogs whenever I could.

I was so optimistic when my older sister developed a literal rack when puberty hit—so much so that her nickname was (and still is) Jenny Juggs. But when my younger sister passed up my bee-stings, I knew something was up—and I was heartbroken. I'll never forget my mom consoling me: "Honey, you put your body through so much in gymnastics, your hormones are just reacting like they should!" She didn't have an answer to the fact that my younger sister was also in gymnastics and was generously endowed.

So my chest, or lack thereof, made me the target of bullies who I still hate today. I will never forget the vicious look in this girl Chloe's eyes as I sat on the back of the school bus and she sang out, "Your sisters have tits! What is wrong with you?!"

But I endured—I fell in love with Bubs, he seemed to like my barely B's, I was successful in club gymnastics, and I even liked the way I looked in a bikini because my ripped abs flowed nicely into my small chest.

And then when I was 18, I quit gymnastics. I've had doctors tell me it was the hormonal shift from not being so active, I've had doctors tell me it's sheer coincidence and lots of women go through breast growth after puberty. Within a month or so—overnight in teenager terms—I had a legitimate rack. 

I very distinctly remember midway through the growth, my bra was so tight and Bubs would not stop staring at my chest. I actually got mad at him because he could not say what it was about me that was different—I finally had to spell it out for him: "I have tits now, dumbass!" I eventually settled at a pretty full D cup, the size that I've been ever since. At first, I felt like I was going to tip over and that I looked like a freak being 5'1" (on a good day) with huge bazooms.

But I have to admit, everything became more fun. Going out in a bikini, shopping for lingerie, being a slutty vampire for Halloween was way more fun with big knockers.

And then I got pregnant with Abby. While this may be too personal, it is relevant to the story—I have what are generally referred to as "ghost nipples," meaning my areolas are barely darker than the surrounding flesh. Just like all other worried new moms, I read every book I could on childbirth and was in a state of panic because every book said, "Your nipples will get darker so the baby can see them." Mine never did, and I cried myself to sleep for months thinking that my baby was going to starve because of my defective body.

But as it turned out, the boobs worked just fine...with all three kids. And not only that, something about our family genetics means we bounce back (note the pun) pretty well. Even my mom, in her 60s, still has pretty perky boobs. Me and Jess's are okay—but dear God, Jenny Juggs lives up to her moniker to this day as she looks like she went through puberty yesterday. Her boobs sit so high and jiggle so naturally. Jess and I are convinced she's had a secret surgery. She says no of course not and we can't find scars, and it's not for lack of trying to find them. 

So no, we aren't quite done yet, but as I sit here with more tears than I'd care to admit—I am thinking about how long I've been fascinated with boobs and how one phase of my life as a woman will shortly come to an end. soon these boobs won’t be a source of milk or midnight snuggles—they’ll go back to being just mine. Maybe that’s what this hormonal wave really is: saying goodbye to a version of myself that only existed because someone needed me to feed them.