Growing up, I remember seeing my mom’s breasts. In childlike fashion, I offered unflattering commentary about why her breasts looked “that way?” Without missing a beat or being sensitive to the slight, she did what all mothers do, she blamed me and my sister for the plight of her breasts.
I grew into GREAT breasts. I was a solid C+ cup. They were full shaped and perky. It wasn’t unusual to have compliments, even from women, on my breasts. Those were great days – the days before the consequences of pregnancy.
To cut to the chase – my breasts suffered the same plight as my mom’s breasts. I pumped and breastfed for two years between my twins. At the 18-month mark, I started to see changes. At the time I attributed this change to the discontinuation of pumping and exclusively breastfeeding.
After my breastfeeding journey ended in the summer, the winter bought the blues… droopy breasts. In horror I looked. Oh no! Not this consequence of pregnancy, I silently pleaded. I’m giving away a closet full of shoes – now this? Days passed before I was brave enough look at them again in the mirror. No amount of affirmations, or a good Mary J Blige song, could uplift what was staring back at me. Deflated and droopy breasts. Gone were their fullness and perkiness. Gone was the tight skin. Even my nipples looked different than what I remembered!
Denial is a big part of my consequences of pregnancy… particularly when it came to truths about myself. Similar to my feet growing a full size bigger, I wished on a star that the grandeur of great breasts would return. As time went on, I accepted defeat, or should I say, deflate? At one point I investigated plastic surgery. The $20k price tag and lengthy recovery gave me significant pause as I thought about the logistics of taking care of my kids.
Now, I should interject here that my husband, sister, and friends did not feed my despair. But truth is truth, and the mirror doesn’t lie.
Oh… the consequences of pregnancy. Is this vanity? Sure, let’s call it vanity. I had great breasts. Should I be one of those women that singularly celebrates that my breasts sustained life for two years to two amazing humans that I birthed. Nope. Not me. My breasts before children were a signature part of my look. I bought dresses and shirts to support that look. It was heartbreak, disappointment, and deflating {pun intended} to my ego and sense of self to look at my post-baby body to see yet another change that wouldn’t change back unless I spent money for surgical intervention.
Oh… the defeating consequences of pregnancy. I can’t deny, I knew this one was a possibility. I grew up with the visual aftermath. Do I feel better because I knew. Of course not. Four years post my reality, I’ve nearly abandoned surgical intervention. I’ve come to acceptance {somewhat acceptance}. I look at old pictures and smile. I’m happy I knew what I had and celebrated my body. It would be great to have the breasts of my past. But I’ve got what I have and it’s my job as a mom and woman to celebrate everything about me, even when it’s hard.
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