Ta-tas. Boobies. "The girls." Whatever you want to call them, people, I'm here to tell you that I don't really have them. My boobs seem to be lacking in...girth? Volume? Stature?
Don't get me wrong, before I had kids I had boobs. Granted, they weren't huge...just nice and perky. During my pregnancies, something marvelous happened to "the girls." They plumped right up and filled out nicely. For a brief time, I was curvaceous! (This is a VERY BIG DEAL for a girl who resembles a praying mantis.) It was uncanny, unheard of! It sort of made up for the raging heart burn and the "pain in the ass" constipation that pregnancy induced. (And you bet that pun was intended!)
After my babies were born--and after discovering I was unable to nurse them--my ta-tas decided to retire from their "milk maid trade" and become magicians. They pulled a "David Copperfield" trick and disappeared. Poof! Just like that.
Sometimes I find myself yearning for bigger boobies. (Remember that one post about the man in Staples?? HE THOUGHT I WAS A DUDE!) I'm not prepared to embark on any kind of "surgical enhancement" (too scared--I mean, I've been known to hyperventilate while having my teeth cleaned), and I'm still coming to terms with the fact that my boobs are non-existent--diminished, wilted, gone, poof! So in the meantime...I rock a padded bra.
I recently went bra shopping with my mom. Twenty years ago, that would have been as embarrassing as the time my "fourth grade self" farted in front of the boy I had a crush on while standing in the school lunch line. Now, bra shopping with my mom is pretty tame...and mostly fun.
Her "Perfect Brassiere for Leish" radar must have been tuned to ULTRA PADDED, because as we wandered through the racks (hee hee...racks) of "intimate apparel," she honed in on the most padded bra in all of creation. There it was--in the midst of all the lace and leopard print, the demi-cups and push-ups--two pillows attached by an elastic band. She held it up for me and giggled: "What about this one, Leish?"
"I know you're showing that one to me to be funny, Mom," I laughed, "but it's actually perfect. Hand it over and I'll try it on."
Guess which one I bought?
Shortly after the bra shopping excursion, I was cleaning the toilet of our guest bathroom (blech!) when Lilly appeared in the doorway; panicked and out of breath. "Mom, Mom!," she said, "Come quick! It's Camren!"
I threw down the Lysol Toliet Bowl Cleaner and sprang to my slipper-clad feet. I felt my heart flip and flop in my chest as I thought about what could be wrong. "He's finally managed to shove an entire stick of string cheese into his mouth, and now he's choking to death," I thought. Has he gotten tangled up in the blinds? (Oddly, he loves to play in them.) Has he tripped and banged his noggin?
"Follow me, Mom," Lilly shouted, as we raced into my bedroom. She pointed to the floor--to where Cam was sitting with his toy cars--and screamed, "LOOK! CAMREN'S GOT YOUR BOOBS ON HIS HEAD!!"
I looked at my grinning, beautiful, brown-eyed baby boy--with my padded bra draped across the top of his head in such a fashion as to resemble ear muffs--and thought two things:
1.) He looks like Princess Leia.
2.) Lilly is right. Indeed, those are my boobs on his head.
Here's the thing: It doesn't matter what you call them--ta-tas, boobies, or "the girls." And it doesn't matter what size you are--big, just right, or itty-bitty. (Or so itty-bitty your bra is ULTRA PADDED.) What matters is that you take care of them; valuing your body and taking a proactive stance on women's health issues. Check yourself. Visit your doctor regularly. Your physical well-being is important. YOU are important.
May the force be with you...and your breast-a-roos!