The Imperfect Parent - Articles || Mominatrix

PUBLISHED June, 2008
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Mommy Mammaries

by Kristen Chase

After two pregnancies and a combined three years of breastfeeding, my boobs have definitely seen better days. Granted I’m not yet picking them up off the ground and tucking them into my elastic waist band pants, but a bra is definitely required at almost all times. In fact, the bra must be factored into all clothes purchasing decisions even pajamas, which for you small to moderately breast sized women used to be a no-brainer.

Tank tops with the little shelf bra? Yes please! Bathing suits with the support of a training bra? No problem.

And while I never was one to put much thought into the transition of sexy breasts to milky breasts since well, it just seemed like the thing that you do when you shoot a baby out of you, I’m definitely more aware of it now than ever before.

And apparently, so is my husband.

After a few minutes into our regular foreplay routine, my breasts were released from their holding cell and he decided to call my breasts “mommy mammaries.”

“What did you just call them?” I gasped, slinking back under the sheets.

“Well, um, that’s what they are, right?” he replied. “I mean, it’s not a bad thing.”

I suppose it’s one thing to realize that your breasts aren’t what they used to be – that what you used to flaunt in tight bra-less tops and low cut dresses have taken on a new unfamiliar form. But it’s a whole other ball game when you realize that your spousal unit is quite aware of the effects of motherhood so pleasantly displayed in your mismatched downward pointing breasts.

So after wiping my eyes and smacking him upside the head with my padded bra before quickly putting it back on, I thought about the whole idea behind “mommy mammaries” and why it offended me so much. Maybe it was because I was holding out hope that he put on his 24-year-old with bouncy tits glasses every time we fooled around. Or maybe it’s because I was holding out hope that my sagging boobs were just a figment of my pregnant hormonal haze.

The truth is that they sustained and nurtured my kids, much how nature intended it. And really, they weren’t necessarily created to be juggled in some dude’s face or used as a stand-in for butt cheeks or a vagina.

The female breast has become a hugely sexualized body organ, seemingly piquing here in the United States were the wee bit of cleavage sends parents rushing to cover their poor children’s eyes. Whereas most European countries tend to be more laissez-faire about the whole thing with boobs bobbing around on park benches and shopping malls, we’ve got our bras on so tight that I think it’s affecting our brains.

Add in the whole silicone nation where the norm is perfectly round and symmetrical grapefruits surgically attached to every other woman you pass on the street, and it’s no wonder post-partum women have a complex.

Clearly I’m not discounting the sexual nature of breasts or their role in the sex lives of most Americans. But what I am finding is that there are women, too many women in fact, that are turned off to breastfeeding and turned off to their own post-partum bodies not because their breasts are ugly, but because they’re holding tightly to this notion that perky breasts somehow equal sexy.

It’s not to say we can’t be disappointed that our once book shelf like rack needs a little assistance to hold up a cup of iced tea. But I’m thinking some ownership of this idea that just because my breasts aren’t what they used to be doesn’t make them any less beautiful.

I’ve decided to proudly flaunt the “mommy mammaries” regardless of whether I’ve got to drag them along the ground behind me, or use some type of strategic tape to attach them back up where they belong.

Because when it comes right down to it, they’re just a couple of boobs. Nothing more and nothing less.