The Great Boob Rebellion of 2015 - 2018 REWRITE

Let me say, this is a blog about boobs, and nursing, and you're probably going to be horrified and possibly grossed out if you aren't a mother.

Originally this post started with a disclaimer telling men to stay away from this post, however I'd like to fully retract that warning and actually go so far as to reissue the opposite -

Ladies who have not yet breast fed, STAY AWAY FROM THIS POST - you don't need to know of these horrors before your time...and Gentlemen, if you plan on fathering children or perhaps already have, read this, your wife/girlfriend/baby mama deserves the moon, as does your mother and you should know that this shit is real.

Let's go!

Me and the girls (my boobs) have always had a fairly harmonious relationship. They were small enough to look cute in oversized t-shirts and defied gravity in a way that was appreciated, though sorely taken for granted. They seemingly had no real purpose in my life but they also had never caused me any real issues, so we got along fine.

In fact, I really loved my boobs. And not in the way that cool instagram moms still love their mom boobs. I really loved my pre-mom boobs, and I really don't love them as much now and that's fiiiinnneeee!

I feel like every women who says she loves her body more post-motherhood is full of shit. Where I used to have smooth hips, I have silver-pink stretchmarks reminding me of how determined charlotte was to split me open from the inside out. My feet were once tiny and cute, lucky to fit a size 5.5, and now they are just normal size 6's. Before I became a mother, my eyebrows were plucked and my legs were shaved, rain or shine. Now, my tweezers were last seen a few months ago removing a splinter . from a wiggly finger and I shave with a toddler splashing at my feet (hahahaha this is funny, cause I made it sound like I remember to shave)...

I believe Samantha said it best (Sex and the City) when she was set to do her nude photo shoot in season 4 - "This is not about a man’s approval. This photo is just for me so when I’m old and my tits are in my shoes I can look at it and say ¨Damn, I was hot.¨"

a true feminist icon

I really loved that sentiment, it's how I felt about my own passing youth, though I had no idea just how quickly that youth would pass. You see,  never did I expect to join the ranks of motherhood in my early 20's. That wasn't the plan. 

I was the oldest of 7 siblings, which means I grew up around babies. In fact, when my mom told 14 year old me that she was pregnant AGAIN with my last and youngest sister, I actually cried.

And yet here I am, 26 years old with a toddler. And guess what! I LOVE being a young mom, I'd have done things no other way, and I have no regrets - though had I know postpartum applied to your entire body...I might have taken a few more pictures because the day, neigh, the second Charlotte started to grow, everything changed.

'Engorged' is the word used to describe what happens to the female breast during the process of growing/sustaining a baby. Engorged isn't my favorite word, however it does describe the event perfectly.

Engorgement is every bit as painful as it sounds. During my 1st trimester I couldn't so much as roll over in bed without feeling each breast was its own individual cement truck. Only instead of cement, it felt more like hundreds of jagged burning bricks smashed inside what once was a cute B cup, on a good day.

Once my sweet baby girl entered this world, the sensation of 1st trimester brick-boobs returned with a vengeance. Once, I actually cried because Charlotte decided she wasn't as hungry as I soooo desperately needed her to be.

All this to say,

6 and a half months into nursing, due to extenuating life circumstances, I found myself in the position of throwing in the towel on breastfeeding - cold turkey.

Sureeeee, I expected some discomfort, but after several months of have my engorged boobs gnawed on by my offspring, I thought I'd seen the worst of things. I was in no way prepared for what was to come.

Not 2 missed feedings later I had my first glimpse of the beast I'd awakened.

I had just got in the car, buckled my seat belt and rummaged my phone out of my purse. I swiveled my lower back to throw my purse behind my seat when the inside of my arm hit something rock hard. At first, my brain didn't even make the association between the giant boulder my arm had just ran into, and the screaming pain I was simultaneously experiencing, but then it clicked.

That wasn't a confusingly misplaced boulder at all! That was my boob.

My boob was so 'engorged' that my own brain didn't recognize it!

I won't go into detail about how I resolved this issue, sans pump, but even my best efforts provided only the slightest relief.

Fast forward into the night, I couldn't sleep. I couldn't sleep, I didn't want to breathe, and I genuinely was avoiding going pee because I had the fear of GOD in me. The slightest sigh of breath was agonizing, my boobs had gone from their life long B-cups to BUSTING out of DDs and that was before this cold-turkey nonsense.

THE PAINNNNNNN ugh! I remember it like it was yesterday, both first trimester AND early breast feeding amounts of pain were far surpassed. Around 3:30am I hit the shower to see what relief I could find in the warm water. None. None plus carefully avoiding any direct contact between the streams of water and my very very scary boobs...

Exhausted, in pain, and probably depressed I finally gave up and slank back to bed. Charlotte would be waking up soon and I'd yet to have gotten any real sleep, an already rare and precious commodity. I couldn't even pump - I was told that my 'supply' wouldn't dry up unless I stopped telling my body to produce more, and I didn't want to produce more for fear of actual death or exploded boobs(an all to real fear at the time).

My last ditch effort to get some sleep was probably one of my more asinine of ideas but to avoid the inevitable leaking that I couldn't escape, I donned two of charlotte's diapers in the style of the clam-shell bra in the style of The Little Mermaid.

This didn't actually work, but I pretended it did long enough to fall asleep.

But then, then dear readers, I woke up.

By 700am things we're gettin' real ugly. And real painful.

Now, keep in mind that I'm wearing diapers as bra-cups at this point. Actual, full-human baby sized diapers, as bra cups... If ever I had a cliche morning as a frazzled, sleep deprived, teary-eyed new mother - this was it.

In a frenzy to find the breast pump, clutching my diaper-bra to my chest, I kicked into panic mode. I no longer cared about my 'supply', I don't even think I grabbed a shirt, I just focused all my motherly powers on locating, assembling, and utilizing the breast pump, as quickly as possible. I tore shit up. My entire house fell to chaos, eventually resembling dorthy's farmhouse post-tornado drop in OZ...this scene ended in silent tears when only three fourths of the pump could be found and I finally gave up the hunt for the remaining tube and in utter defeat began to pump one side at a time.



I don't really remember how because at this point I wasn't really functioning in reality anymore, but I did survive all this.

I pumped 8oz out of 1 boob that morning.

That may mean nothing to you, but if you're a pumping momma, just let that sink in for a second.

8oz - 1 boob. FEATS OF HUMANITY LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!

Charlotte was almost equally upset by this entire process, which all said and done took over a FULL YEAR to stop producing milk once I gave up the pump for good a few days later.

Man - my anxiety is just through the roof retelling this ancient tale....

MORAL OF MY STORY - cause if you can learn from this, you really should...

If you are able, don't cold turkey breast feeding.

On the bright side, it hurts so much, you won't even have the brain capacity to feel sad about no longer nursing!