Dog, my boobs are so big. They were pretty big before I had a baby, and then I had a baby, and holy smokes. I would say I had mom boobs before I became a mom, and since becoming a mom they’re more like grandma boobs. My boobs look like Mrs. Doubtfire’s except approximately six thousand times saggier. I wish I had Mrs. Doubtfire’s boobs.
And breastfeeding! Most of the time breastfeeding is messy but convenient, until you go a little longer than normal without nursing and suddenly your boobs fill with coal and shattered glass and your nipples erupt and you have to spend a full 24 hours nursing, pumping, punching, squeezing, and burning your boobs.
There’s so much I want to say about boobs and breastfeeding. But I have a little baby and I don’t sleep that much, so I have neither the time nor the brainpower to form like, a cohesive story or anything. So here are several unrelated boob thoughts—
Like I already said, my boobs are rather saggy. They’re also really dense. The lactation consultant at the hospital actually called them substantial, as in: “You can’t expect that baby to hold up those substantial breasts up on his own! You got some heavy, floppy tiddies, girl.” But because they are so heavy, and so floppy, I can stick a lot of things underneath them.
Here’s a list of actual things I have successfully carried between my boobs and ribs, and the difficulty rating in doing so (1 is easy, 10 is hard).
- My cell phone – rating: 1
- A TV box (also known as a remote control) – rating: 1
- A 350-page novel – rating: 1
- A can of diced tomatoes – rating: 3
- A half-full bottle of wine – rating: 4
- An L.L.Bean boot – rating: 6
- An acorn squash – rating: 5
Things I could not carry:
- A whole pineapple (hurt pretty bad to try, actually)
My baby and I read Dr. Seuss’s One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish a lot because it’s a dope book. I re-wrote the Gox poem (“I like to box. How I like to box!”) to be about breastfeeding.
I need to pump.
How I need to pump!
So, every day,
I pump my lumps.
Then I dump.
I pump my lumps.
I pump and then
take a lump pump dump.
This poem is symbolic of my need to pump out my oversupply of milk every day, and how also breastfeeding makes me poop. I come so, so close to pooping my pants most days now.
When my milk came in a couple days after giving birth, I felt shaky and achy and had a low-grade fever. I called up the doctor and we agreed that I couldn’t have mastitis (infected tiddy) already because my boobs didn’t hurt and I barely had any milk yet.
Turns out I had milk fever, which is when you get a little feverish when your milk comes in. But if you Google “milk fever,” you will find that almost all of the results are about cows and goats and other barnyard mommas.
Milk fever is primarily seen in dairy cattle but can also be seen in beef cattle and ALSO ME, YER GIRL.
When I lie flat on my back, my boobs flop to either side. I could easily nurse two babies at the same time. Send your babies to me, I’ll nurse em.
(For real, why not? Pumping sucks, I got too much milk, and wet nurses used to be a thing! But your babies probably won’t want me milk. We went away for the weekend and I didn’t bring my pump, and my baby slept the entire time, and my boobs went out of control. I tried to get my niece babies to help an auntie out and they tweren’t having it. When I offered my boob they were.so.creeped.out. It was kind of funny, to see such confusion and terror on the faces of sweet babes. Also a little insulting. LIKE WUT, MY MILK AIN’T GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU??)
Actually, I tried my own milk and I think it would’ve been perfectly good enough for them. I’ve drank the milk of thousands of cows I don’t even know—why wouldn’t I try my own!?! It was fine. Sweet and watery.
I may not love the way these boobs of mine look, but I’m pretty thankful for the sweet and watery melky cabrera that comes out of them and feeds my baby so good. So, thank you, flopping tiddies o mine.