Learning to Love My Saggy Boobies After Babies
I was a carpenter’s dream.
Until I was pregnant, I never had boobs — not through puberty, and not afterward. I sported a pair of freakish, dime-sized nipples, and a cup size that was smaller than that of many men I knew — especially the ones who could put up 200 lbs on the bench press.
My nips defied gravity. Somehow, they pointed up. Straight out on a bad nip day.
We all know that bodies come in every shape and size, but the entire contents of my bra could’ve fit in the indentations of a miniature cupcake tin. It was that “bad.”
But it wasn’t bad. The good news about my scarce boobage was that I didn’t have to wear a bra.* I even went topless at a (very small) pool party in my friend’s backyard once. I figured if people didn’t want to see my itty bitty kitty titties, they should just look away.
“You’re gonna get flat, saggy t*ts when you get old,” warned a male friend, who couldn’t possibly have had a vested interest in such concerns. He seemed offended by people who didn’t tamp down their THO** with a bra.
“No, I won’t,” I countered. “You’ve got to have boobs to have saggy ones.”
Even going on birth control didn’t make my bosom multiply into the ample handfuls I’d assumed to be attractive. I was athletic and reasonably smart but often felt bad about myself for my lack of fleshy champagne glasses. I wanted nips that were closer to the diameter of, well, if not silver dollars, at least quarters.
Having had no cleavage to speak of, I longed to be taken seriously as a woman — or maybe even just to look like I was older than twelve.
Moons Over my Boobehs
When I had a baby, everything changed — including my love for overarching space metaphors.
My pregnancy hormones launched me all the way to the Kuiper Belt. My boobs exploded by several sizes — a boobsplosion, if you will — or twin supernovas, for the astronomically inclined. I got stretch marks where smooth skin had been. Not only did my nipples change from Plutos to Saturns, they now had circumstellar discs more…