“Hey Bob! Hope this
finds you well and somewhat warm. I
can’t feel my left pinkie toe but what the hay…because you will be happy to
know it’s my birthday next Tuesday! You
may or may not be excited about my birthday (have one every year, so nothing
new) or particularly concerned about my toe (seeing as it will eventually thaw
and does anyone really need a pinkie toe anyway) but more specifically because
I fly out early, early Wednesday AM to Costa Rica which means …drum roll
please… I will get my article to you by Monday (writers note: early for me
never, ever happens). Oh, and can I
write about boobs? In a tasteful way, of
course :) As if, there is any other way,
right? La”
“I’m sure it will be tasteful. Be careful sending pictures though. Happy Birthday, La. Your toe should thaw in Costa Rica.”
That’s
why Bob makes the big bucks; he’s totally right. About the pictures. Oh, and curse words but that’s another story.
But for
me, what’s important here isn’t the vaca, the weather or the word that begins
with “b”, rhymes with tubes and makes grown men giggle. It’s my annual “woe is me”, “oh holy, crap”,
I’m getting another year older so I’ll keep waxing philosophical while getting
up every hour on the hour to pee column.
It
seems my birthday always coincides with the first of the year- or rather… the
symbolic start of new beginnings, fresh (not stale) do-over s and over-the-top
promises, props and pathways to all sorts of untapped potential. So
you’ll have to just bear with me.
Almost
ten years ago, at 32, I was in the same, questioning place. Only ten times more woeful.
The
difference was I had just had my second baby.
Gosh, she was gorgeous. She had
freckles like fairy dust, baby blues as crisp as a fresh fall sky and dimples
as deep as a canyon. I WAS IN LOVE.
But the
awful, scary truth was I absolutely could not, no matter how hard or how
fiercely I tried breastfeed that precious baby.
And let
me tell you I tried everything. But
nothing worked.
What
did happen was I developed a really bad infection in my left mammary gland that
would burn so bad I could feel it shoot through my chest, all around my brain
and straight down my back all the while I was nursing.
I would weep, y’all. Seriously.
Three weeks in and they would bring my happy, pudgy, everyone sneaking
her formula-fed baby into to see me, and I’d crumple in a big, bad puddle of
failure. It got to be so I would cry at
the sight of that gorgeous baby-not because I didn’t love her- but because I
Was THE WORST MOTHER EVER. I was
depriving her of something she so desperately needed.
“Breast
is best.”
“Breast is best.”
Even though my pediatrician kept
telling me she will still go to college without all that colostrum. I still figured I screwed it all up.
Finally, I friend sat me down and
gave me a talking to.
“Look, if you’re going to cry every
time you see her because it hurts so much just to feed her then get over
yourself already and enjoy your baby. Here’s
the bottle. You’re welcome. Plus, Publix
is slap out of cabbage leaves and were defrosting your freezer.”
Flash forward two years later.
The baby is healthy and happy, but
mom is not. She-I-can’t get over how
much everything has changed. It’s not
just the sleepless nights and the spit up; the soiled sheets and the contaminated
diaper genies. It’s the fact and very
real truth that slaps me the face every day when I get out of the one minute
shower with my other toddler strap to my knee.
My boobs- that were nothing to brag about to begin with- were now sliding
their merry way down to the equator near the Galapagos Islands looking to board
Charles Darwin’s ship.
Y’all. I had never seen anything like it. And in my post-partum, unequally sized
shaped, dimpled and destroyed girls seemed to be telling me:
“Breast is best.”
“Breast is best.”
So I went in.
I can’t say getting implants was
the worst decision I ever made almost eight years ago. After all, I have sadly but happily been
making many, many mistakes ever since.
I guess I just put a value on my
body and my role in my life that said- “wait… not so fast. I don’t’ want to get older, look older, not quite
yet.”
See, in my 30’s, I felt that if I
looked good, I’d feel good.
In my 30’s, if I wanted people to
like me, I had to present “me” in a certain neat, pretty-packaged, likable way.
Now, in my 40’s, I really don’t
give a damn. (Sorry, Bob.)
Turns out growing older is a pretty
good gig after all. As long as you get it.
I removed my implants this past
summer. I can tell you it was one of the
wiser decisions I have ever made. I feel
lighter…….. in so many ways.
Though my boobs still do point straight
down South to the equator. But who
cares…I’m heading there now as we speak.
Are breasts really best?
Nah’. Life is.
