Look, it can make or break your look. I love the statistics of how so many women are wearing the wrong size bra, and then it never fails I get some idiot fitter who keeps telling me I can go up in the band to compensate for my cup size just so they can make a sale when they don’t carry my actual size. Even when trying to find a nursing bra they kept telling me this, I ended up with a 38 band. You know what happens when you take a 32/34 and put her in a 38?

Gawd, isn’t THAT pretty.

The other extreme is just as bad in a completely different way. Buying the right band size but the wrong cup size creates a look that can only be called “ass-chest.”

Then there’s the time that the angels sing in a beautiful chorus because, like Goldilocks, you find the one that is JUST RIGHT.

Just for good measure

Wanna see some more bewbs? Head on over to Lotus’ place!?Ǭ†

Shocking, I know. Me? Talk about my boobs? Never!

Step back with me to avoid the lightning strike as a result of my lying.

Lotus asked us to talk about our experiences in feeding our children with our boobies or with bottles while our children still mauled our boobies anyway, cuz that what babies tend to do it seems. (At least it explains why Alex continues to grab at Scout’s chest like it’s gonna yield anything but hair in his teeth.)

(originally posted in two parts here and here)

Post One

(You may have noticed the new little ?¢‚Ǩ?ìFacebook Sucks?¢‚Ǩ¬ù icon over to the right. Click the button and see what you think for yourself. This latest campaign is what prompts this post.)

I have one SIL (Mrs. Deacon) who will nurse anywhere, without covering up. She?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢s also tiny and so subtle about it that I?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢ve been in the room with her and didn?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢t realize she was doing it. My other SIL (Mrs. Forbes) will nurse in public, but only under her Hooter Hider. My third SIL (Mrs. Prof) is still on the fence about if she wants to use formula or nurse. And there?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢s me – riding the Ameda/Medela Express 7 times a day.

I?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢ve been working through my shame/embarrassment of the insane size of my girls since puberty. (As I?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢ve mentioned). I?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢ve passed up going swimming many times over the years because there was no swimsuit that would fit. I?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢ve been the butt of uncomfortable comments and jokes. I?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢ve contemplated surgery, but it doesn?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢t feel like a good decision for me. I know that my modesty about all things chestal interfered with my nursing and is just as much a contributor to why I?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢m on the pump as anything else that was going on in my life while I was learning how to nurse.

I didn?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢t want to be messed with. I certainly didn?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢t want any strange women up in my boobs checking out Alex?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢s latch. I already felt raw and exposed after labor and delivery, all I wanted to do was go HOME with Scout and Alex. I had one nurse who forced the issue and she?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢s the one nurse who I have bad feelings about from being in the hospital. The home health nurse was clearly a lactivist of the nth degree and I wanted her OUT of the house as quickly as possible.

In the middle of the night at home, exhausted, I nursed Alex. I was horrified at the size of my gigantic breast sitting on his tiny little chest. I lived in fear through each time he nursed that I was going to fall asleep and the headlines would read, ?¢‚Ǩ?ìTiny innocent suffocated by enormous gross boob. News at 11.?¢‚Ǩ¬ù

Scout supported me in whatever I did. He also advocated me actually getting some sleep, and could have cared less if Alex drank from a boob, a bottle or a beer bong as long as I was getting sleep and recovering, and Alex was being fed.

Then the umbilical incident happened. Then we bottle fed pumped milk. Then he got a cold and decided to nurse again. Then I went back to work for a week and went 8 hours without pumping because I didn?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢t want to deal with it at school. Meanwhile my MIL was in the house, and I?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢d be damned if I was whipping a tit out in front of her and try to figure out wtf I was doing with an audience.

Then we moved cross country when Alex was 8 weeks old. My goal had been to really focus on nursing once we got moved. I underestimated how freaking alone our little family was going to be. I underestimated how hard nursing was in the first place – because it?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢s so NATURAL. Whatever. I underestimated how much I would HATE making my child scream for milk, while trying to force him to nurse, with a bottle of mammaraid on standby. I underestimated how much it fucking hurt to be clamped on by little gums attached to angry, hungry baby.

I underestimated how shattered, how worthless, I would feel each time my tiny baby rejected my breasts – rejected me. I felt so stupid each time I broke into sobs when I would stop trying and give him the bottle of breast milk. How stupid I feel crying over it now as I sit and try to coherently write this as I struggle to get to my point.

I try to remember this as the last time we nursed. It?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢s the last time we successfully nursed in any case. (ed. I?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢ll have to elaborate on this more tomorrow.)

Regardless of if it?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢s natural/not obscene/necessary/legal to have my exposed breast out to feed my child in public – I wouldn?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢t be comfortable doing it. All of my pent up, 2 decades worth of issues with my breasts did not go away just because I acquired the ?¢‚Ǩ?ìsuperpower?¢‚Ǩ¬ù of creating food for my son.

Let me say that again. My body issues did not go away just because I?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢m capable of creating food for my son.

If anything, it?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢s worse now. It?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢s worse because when I see a mom nursing, when I see the photos, when I read the stories, it reminds me of how I failed again. How I let my feelings about my body get in the way. How I could not find it in myself to think I was beautiful enough, good enough to be comfortable nursing my own baby.

Since being pregnant, my concept of what I think is brave and beautiful in other women has changed. I think all of you who nurse in public are so brave. I don?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢t care if you do it under cover or out in the open. I think you are all so brave and beautiful for making it work, for not shutting yourselves away. For loving yourself enough to be comfortable doing it.

And yes, I think it needs to be legal to do it wherever and by whatever means necessary. I have this fear that the women who choose to cover up are going to somehow be looked down on for wanting to be move covered or more private. I just hope in the furor over the whole deal that we all stick together and don?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢t get hung up on whether or not we should or should not want to cover up/be in private and focus on making sure we have the CHOICE to feed our babies in the best way for each of us.

Post Two

I come from a long line of non breast feeders. (I?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢d love it if you?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢d check out that link and post a response – I?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢m still curious if my theory is right) Before November 2006 I had no intention of breastfeeding Alex. I was completely skeeved out by the idea of a baby sucking on my boobs. I had two friends who had felt the same way and they?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢d pumped for their boys. I was open to the idea of pumping for him, and that was my plan. I wasn?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢t big on letting a bunch of people invade my privacy and my boobs. It all seemed very invasive to me – the LLL, the Lactation Consultants, it was all more drama than I really wanted to get into. Then Sara framed it for me in a simple way.

Dawn, she said, babies are geared to nurse. A friend told me that you put the naked baby on your naked stomach, you let it root around and find your boob and it will nurse. It?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢s probably worth giving it a shot to see if it works for you, if not, hit the pump.

This simple statement totally changed my point of view.

Alex was born at 2:47 am, after everyone was done with us, I just had them take my gown and leave the clean one by the bed. I wrapped my naked self in the sheet with an unwrapped Alex and just waited to see what would happen.

There in the middle of the night, he nursed. Scout slept beside us, and I fed our boy.

Obviously, things went to hell after that, but I?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢m so grateful for Sara?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢s words. I?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢m so glad I gave it a shot. I feel like, for me, it bonded me to Alex to let him cross that boundary. I temporarily set aside all my hang ups, and I let my little boy be close to me in a way that no other person has ever been.

There?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢s been such an uproar over Applebee?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢s, Facebook and Bill Maher. I?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢ve read so many posts from so many women who show their passion and their heart and their bravery. I?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢d start linking, but that would be never ending – but please feel free to link in the comments, I can?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢t seem to get enough of these stories.

Reading about your experiences has given me the courage to try nursing again. (This one was the last one I read before feeling brave enough to try again.)

And he?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢s done it. He?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢s nursed. Just a little bit. But just enough. Just enough to help me soothe some of that hurt of all the beating myself up I?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢ve done. (Yes, he?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢s caused some hurt when he decides my boobs are chew toys.)

I never would have tried it if it weren?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢t for all of you. So thank you from the bottom of my boobs. And believe me, that?¢‚Ǩ‚Ñ¢s coming from a long way down.

Post Script

The weekend before Thanksgiving I decided to give nursing all day a try. Alex had apparently been nursing in the mornings before we got up, because there wasn’t any milk to pump. I think the combination of him being sleepy and not starving hungry set the stage for us to succeed. I also think that since all I was really looking for was a few more minutes of sleep before he was up for the day that having no expectations of actual nursing taking place was also a bonus.

Four months later, we’ve made it through teeth, trips home, hospitals, relatives, funerals, strangers, friends … it’s all good. I do strive for privacy, but I’m not hiding under a blanket. But I’ll block your boobs from view of others if you want me to. I’ve got your backs sisterfriends.

I once looked at the curve of your thigh and remarked to my mother, “I think I’m going to have your thighs.” She shot back, “You keep eating cookies the way you do and you’ll have YOUR thighs.”

I resisted your blooming shape, I was ashamed of any but the whitest, simplest bras to cover you. I didn’t understand how you grew. I missed when growing up turned into growing fat.

I felt awkward in you. I cried in frustration when you couldn’t jump rope in 9th grade gym. I was embarrassed when you wouldn’t work fast enough or coordinated enough to stop the basketball from slamming my face and breaking my glasses. Again.

I’ve hated you. I’ve hit you in frustration. I’ve hated the breasts that overtook my torso. I’ve smacked them in anger. I’ve jumped up and down and made you jiggle in places, just to have more skin to focus my hatred on.

The torture of the swimsuit. The granny breasts on a teenage form. I was ashamed of the angry red stretch marks that marked your upper thighs. Preventing me from beauty. Ever.

I fed you coffee and cigarettes. I shook for months, I thought I was diabetic. You were thin at last. When people asked how I’d made you look so good, I was honest, “I got my heart broken. I wasn’t hungry.” To myself I would admit the image of a thin woman with the man I loved was sapping my appetite. Permanently.

You tried to tell me to leave the Arizona desert, you tried to tell me to run away from that other man. You closed yourself off. You made me hurt and bleed. I didn’t trust you. I didn’t listen to what you told me. I made us live in that gray area where I didn’t say no, but I certainly didn’t say yes. I didn’t protect you, I let you be hurt under some lie of “love”, I let you be threatened and pushed into corners. When I finally got you safely home, you broke down. You forced me to bed for two weeks with my only case of strep, complicated by tonsillitis. All the screaming and all the words I should have said, burned their way through your throat at last. When the fever burned out, our life was our own again.

We began to heal. I began listening to you, to your messages to me. I looked to the future with the man I loved, who loved you unconditionally, even when I couldn’t yet.

I’ve lay my hands over your womb, I’ve prayed over oil and drawn that oil in a cross over your flat abdomen as I read prayers of healing. I’ve focused all the positive energy in my soul into that part of you and prayed for healing and fertile ground.

You were strong enough to grow and deliver the baby they all said you’d never be able to make. You delivered him easily (relatively speaking, of course), and quickly healed. I was so familiar with you by this point, that it was strange to me to not be able to identify all your parts. Nothing was where I had left it, and we had to be reacquainted again.

Carrying the baby left more marks on you. It was the final nail in the coffin that would forever ban you from a Sports Illustrated centerfold. And with this final scarring across your stomach, and even more stretch in the breasts, I forgave you your imperfections quirks.

In the middle of the night, very unceremoniously, our last war ended with a whimper. I was tired as I walked down the hall, and the familiar script began to play, “Fuckin’ fatty …”

I brushed the words away, those words weren’t talking about us anymore.

The script tried again. “Fuckin’ saggy tits …”

The words had no sting. They lost their power somewhere along the way as that fat shaped into clothes that gave you curves, as those breasts fed a baby.

You’ve done good work. You’ve carried me well these years. You comfort my husband, you created our son, you’ve bent but not broken. Rest now, and let me take care of you. Let me love you. Let me try to build your strength and build your health.

Rather than trying to make you be something you are not, let me finally strive to be worthy of you, you are a good body, you are my good body.

For other Letters to my Body, click here and go to the BlogHer article.

*if you found this through a search engine, please read the comments, I hope you find them helpful and best of luck to you. if you have anything add, please feel free to add your own thoughts*

Below is from my friend who had the miscarriage. If you’ve had this test, would you comment on it – anything I could pass on to her…

” Ok. So I have been put through the ringer the last several months. Some of you know that in March I had a miscarriage at 15 weeks. Well it happened again in September. I was 17 weeks along and my water broke. I am doing fine, but just wish that me and my husband had some answers.

I am going in for an HSG test on Wednesday to see if there are any problems with my uterus. An HSG is a test where they push dye into your uterus to check for any abonormalities. They will be able to take x-rays and see if there is anything there. I am terrified about the pain as I have heard that it is extremly painfull. But on the other hand considering what I have been through, this should be a breeze. At this point I will endure any physical pain to find out what is going on to avoid losing another precious child. My doctor seems to think that I will be able to have a healthy pregnancy again, we just need to find the problem and fix it. After all, I DO have one healthy boy and we don’t have any problems getting pregnant, just staying pregnant. “

Last Monday, I started really focusing on losing the baby weight – thanks to her getting a team together to try and lose the pounds together. I did great right off the bat, then, it rained for three days, it’s now red tent week, and the 2 scoops of ice cream I had last night were. totally. worth. it.

Scout and I once joined a gym. It did not begin well. Here is my reflection on that:

Do not, I repeat, do not join a gym and have your fitness assessment the day before you start your period. Also if you happen to be caught in a traffic that makes a 40 minute drive take 2 hours and 11 minutes – also just call the damn gym and cancel the appointment (please note where I was sitting in traffic is the highway where the bridge collapsed this summer). If your English import sports bra (the only f*cking place on the planet that markets a sports bra actually effective for what I need a sportsbra for) has not yet come in, take it as a sign and do NOT go to the appointment.

If you do not heed this advice you will almost roll your eyes at the nutrition counselor. You will get teary eyed when your husband tries to comfort you b/c he’s a smart boy and recognizes the signs of impending emotional disaster but has not yet come to realize that touching at this moment of pre-explosion only brings doom closer.

After your nutrition session where you learn that the counselor won’t even answer a simple question about SERVING SIZE without referring you to her low low price intro program of 129 (and 99 cents of course) with followup sessions of 89.99 (why don’t they just round up? does their computer system not have a zero on the keyboard?) you will be uncharacteristically pissed. Oh the fact that your BMI=overweight isn’t helping either.

The pissed feeling from this, when combined with the next task in 10 minutes of your fitness assessment with a muscle bound dude will manifest itself in an embarrassed crying fit in the front of the gym.

When you actually go for the fitness assessment your tender baby feelings will get hurt in all new ways when muscle bound plunks the results of your test down – The good news is that I have “average” bicep strength …. for a woman of course. I have poor flexibility – even though Scout did tell me afterward that the machine quit recording before I was done “flexing” so we’ll just disregard that score until later. THEN I have 33% body fat – guess who’s breathing on the door of obese in a way that if I turn too quickly I might knock it down with my “overweight” ass? My personal favorite was the cardio – after a nice brisk 5 minute walk that actually didn’t make me feel like I was going to die I felt pretty good till the treadmill kicks out “Below Average – 25.” Huh, yeah, turns out I need my cardio score to go up like 3 points before I can even work my way up to the “poor” range.

And to top it off – my body age is 38. uh huh. 38. But for about 900 dollars and eight sessions with a trainer I could be well on my way away from not being almost 40.

Your freak show somewhat in shape, TALL, possessing of a metabolism husband will choose to stay behind and run a couple miles. This works well b/c you can go home, bawl into your cat’s fur (I do not mean this euphemistically as a ‘pussy’ kind of joke – I’m not that flexible – see the above score for proof of that) snot on husband’s pillow and moan over aching boobs (see no sports bra reference above).

You will say screw it and order bbq pizza, and cheese bread and drink DP with schnapps for dinner. This will make you rather amorous as the schnapps hits your system. This will make you romance your husband. This will work really well until the schnapps wears off about the time it gets really interesting and the aches and pains in the boobs and the cramps will overtake any fun and you plead a raincheck with your husband for another night.

You will awake the next morning and be thrilled when you see your period has started. This will confirm that you are not loony, depressed, fat, weak, unsexy, or any of the other things that have wandered through your mind – including pregnant.

So to sum up – no gym assessment when premenstrual. Don’t do it.

***

For the record – Mrs. Flinger has never made me cry. Or asked me for 900 dollars.

I didn’t hit the Mofo Delurk day too hard yesterday because I knew I had this on tap and I wanted to bribe all my lurkers to come out and play today, so pretend like today is yesterday and delurk for me mmkay? Lovesyah.

I wrote about my sisterfriend here. I’m looking to help her out. She’s 3 weeks into the nursing thing, well into the OMGWTF indoctrination of it (already one trip to the ER b/c they couldn’t figure out why BabyGirl was projectile puking ORANGE – guess what it was – yeah BabyGirl was sucking her blood and yakking it back up).

She asked me to send her a link of somewhere she can get help, advice, support, stories. She needs to not feel alone in this nursing thing.

Will you help her out? I want to be able to direct her to this post. I’m going to add links that I wish I would have had 5 months ago – will you join my think tank of support and give her either your personal story, or a link to something that you would find helpful if you were 3 weeks into the mommy thing, and nursing was kinda sucky, but totally worth it?

Incentive

For each comment you post with a link or a story, I will put your name into a drawing for a handmade afghan. I made it myself, it’s pink, washable, roughly 24 inches square, and all in garter stitch. If you aren’t in the market for a pink baby afghan, I can always donate to Project Linus in your name. Kaiser will pick a winner next Thursday morning, October 11, after 6am EDT.

Thank you!

I missed Philanthropy Thursday last week, but I’m back on track this week. SlackerMom sent out a call for items to sell for a school auction – I’m sending her a baby afghan (different from this one).

(Ten Steps for Creating Breast Health)

I come from a long line of non breast feeders. (I’d love it if you’d check out that link and post a response – I’m still curious if my theory is right) Before November 2006 I had no intention of breastfeeding Alex. I was completely skeeved out by the idea of a baby sucking on my boobs. I had two friends who had felt the same way and they’d pumped for their boys. I was open to the idea of pumping for him, and that was my plan. I wasn’t big on letting a bunch of people invade my privacy and my boobs. It all seemed very invasive to me – the LLL, the Lactation Consultants, it was all more drama than I really wanted to get into. Then Sara framed it for me in a simple way.

Dawn, she said, babies are geared to nurse. A friend told me that you put the naked baby on your naked stomach, you let it root around and find your boob and it will nurse. It’s probably worth giving it a shot to see if it works for you, if not, hit the pump.

This simple statement totally changed my point of view.

Alex was born at 2:47 am, after everyone was done with us, I just had them take my gown and leave the clean one by the bed. I wrapped my naked self in the sheet with an unwrapped Alex and just waited to see what would happen.

There in the middle of the night, he nursed. Scout slept beside us, and I fed our boy.

Obviously, things went to hell after that, but I’m so grateful for Sara’s words. I’m so glad I gave it a shot. I feel like, for me, it bonded me to Alex to let him cross that boundary. I temporarily set aside all my hang ups, and I let my little boy be close to me in a way that no other person has ever been.

There’s been such an uproar over Applebee’s, Facebook and Bill Maher. I’ve read so many posts from so many women who show their passion and their heart and their bravery. I’d start linking, but that would be never ending – but please feel free to link in the comments, I can’t seem to get enough of these stories.

Reading about your experiences has given me the courage to try nursing again. (This one was the last one I read before feeling brave enough to try again.)

And he’s done it. He’s nursed. Just a little bit. But just enough. Just enough to help me soothe some of that hurt of all the beating myself up I’ve done. (Yes, he’s caused some hurt when he decides my boobs are chew toys.)

I never would have tried it if it weren’t for all of you. So thank you from the bottom of my boobs. And believe me, that’s coming from a long way down.

(Ten Steps for Creating Breast Health)

(You may have noticed the new little “Facebook Sucks” icon over to the right. Click the button and see what you think for yourself. This latest campaign is what prompts this post.)

I have one SIL (Mrs. Deacon) who will nurse anywhere, without covering up. She’s also tiny and so subtle about it that I’ve been in the room with her and didn’t realize she was doing it. My other SIL (Mrs. Forbes) will nurse in public, but only under her Hooter Hider. My third SIL (Mrs. Prof) is still on the fence about if she wants to use formula or nurse. And there’s me – riding the Ameda/Medela Express 7 times a day.

I’ve been working through my shame/embarrassment of the insane size of my girls since puberty. (As I’ve mentioned). I’ve passed up going swimming many times over the years because there was no swimsuit that would fit. I’ve been the butt of uncomfortable comments and jokes. I’ve contemplated surgery, but it doesn’t feel like a good decision for me. I know that my modesty about all things chestal interfered with my nursing and is just as much a contributor to why I’m on the pump as anything else that was going on in my life while I was learning how to nurse.

I didn’t want to be messed with. I certainly didn’t want any strange women up in my boobs checking out Alex’s latch. I already felt raw and exposed after labor and delivery, all I wanted to do was go HOME with Scout and Alex. I had one nurse who forced the issue and she’s the one nurse who I have bad feelings about from being in the hospital. The home health nurse was clearly a lactivist of the nth degree and I wanted her OUT of the house as quickly as possible.

In the middle of the night at home, exhausted, I nursed Alex. I was horrified at the size of my gigantic breast sitting on his tiny little chest. I lived in fear through each time he nursed that I was going to fall asleep and the headlines would read, “Tiny innocent suffocated by enormous gross boob. News at 11.”

Scout supported me in whatever I did. He also advocated me actually getting some sleep, and could have cared less if Alex drank from a boob, a bottle or a beer bong as long as I was getting sleep and recovering, and Alex was being fed.

Then the umbilical incident happened. Then we bottle fed pumped milk. Then he got a cold and decided to nurse again. Then I went back to work for a week and went 8 hours without pumping because I didn’t want to deal with it at school. Meanwhile my MIL was in the house, and I’d be damned if I was whipping a tit out in front of her and try to figure out wtf I was doing with an audience.

Then we moved cross country when Alex was 8 weeks old. My goal had been to really focus on nursing once we got moved. I underestimated how freaking alone our little family was going to be. I underestimated how hard nursing was in the first place – because it’s so NATURAL. Whatever. I underestimated how much I would HATE making my child scream for milk, while trying to force him to nurse, with a bottle of mammaraid on standby. I underestimated how much it fucking hurt to be clamped on by little gums attached to angry, hungry baby.

I underestimated how shattered, how worthless, I would feel each time my tiny baby rejected my breasts – rejected me. I felt so stupid each time I broke into sobs when I would stop trying and give him the bottle of breast milk. How stupid I feel crying over it now as I sit and try to coherently write this as I struggle to get to my point.

I try to remember this as the last time we nursed. It’s the last time we successfully nursed in any case. (ed. I’ll have to elaborate on this more tomorrow.)

Regardless of if it’s natural/not obscene/necessary/legal to have my exposed breast out to feed my child in public – I wouldn’t be comfortable doing it. All of my pent up, 2 decades worth of issues with my breasts did not go away just because I acquired the “superpower” of creating food for my son.

Let me say that again. My body issues did not go away just because I’m capable of creating food for my son.

If anything, it’s worse now. It’s worse because when I see a mom nursing, when I see the photos, when I read the stories, it reminds me of how I failed again. How I let my feelings about my body get in the way. How I could not find it in myself to think I was beautiful enough, good enough to be comfortable nursing my own baby.

Since being pregnant, my concept of what I think is brave and beautiful in other women has changed. I think all of you who nurse in public are so brave. I don’t care if you do it under cover or out in the open. I think you are all so brave and beautiful for making it work, for not shutting yourselves away. For loving yourself enough to be comfortable doing it.

And yes, I think it needs to be legal to do it wherever and by whatever means necessary. I have this fear that the women who choose to cover up are going to somehow be looked down on for wanting to be move covered or more private. I just hope in the furor over the whole deal that we all stick together and don’t get hung up on whether or not we should or should not want to cover up/be in private and focus on making sure we have the CHOICE to feed our babies in the best way for each of us.

(Ten Steps For Creating Breast Health)

Happy October! Happy Breast Cancer awareness month!

This is one of those issues that I should be more passionate about. I should be more in tune in my own life and I should work through things that might contribute to the health of my breasts (all kinds of body image hurt will come spewing forth tomorrow).

The women in my family have a history of breast cancer and heart problems. On my mom’s side, my Grandma had many lumps and when one of the lumps was finally cancer, she just knew it before ever having it examined. My Great Grandma died after years of heart trouble. My Great Great Grandma also died of breast cancer.

My Aunt on my Dad’s side is currently going through treatment for breast cancer. It spread to her thyroid and she had it removed in August. And I’ll be damned if she doesn’t look like the most beautiful woman in the world in the midst of all of that treatment.

Right now, Team WhyMommy is showing the world that the Mommy Wars are a figment of some bored person’s imagination. WhyMommy herself has chosen to educate everyone she can about Inflammatory Breast Cancer. She shares her pain and her fear and when she’s feeling pretty good. You wanna talk about the strongest woman I’ve ever seen – this is her. (I’m still talking about WhyMommy, however Canape kicks some serious ass as well.)

I do believe that attitude is everything when it comes to my body. I think this meditation is a beautiful walk through of helping me respect my body, even when I don’t want to. (More on that tomorrow – nothing is ever easy in my head.) I will put the meditation at the bottom of each post, through the month of October to help me create a ritual of honoring my body, once a day.

Bra shopping was a complete success. Mrs. Forbes and I entered the store with our two strollers and watched business come to an immediate halt as the baby gushing began. I browsed the drawer for my size and pulled out five that seemed like likely candidates.

This bra was the only winner. I got it in blue, it’s so pretty. I had them go look for anything else that might also work, when they came back, it was me, Alex, and two shop girls in the small dressing room. (One shopgirl was training the other.) They tried me in a few other bras, including nursing bras. Nothing was as good as the one I’d found myself. So while it’s still not pregnancy size, it’s totally +5 on the Mommy’s Point System scale.

It’s always a surreal experience to have another woman put on my bra FOR me. I always do the fasten in front, shimmy around, pull straps up, hoist the girls in place method. They do the Put arms through, bend at the waist, shake into place, stand, fasten in back method. To top it off, she would come around and ADJUST MY BOOBIES into place. After childbirth, this was nothing, at least my pants were on.

Meanwhile, the Kaiser got pissed and the shopgirl in training picked him up and entertained him so I could actually get on with the bra shopping. Awesome.

The nursing bras were a huge bust (hardy har har). All was not lost, however. Shopgirl says, while holding new pretty bra:

“We can have this altered into a nursing bra for you for free.”

Did she just say free?

So, I did what any girl would do – I bought the pretty blue one intact, I bought the same bra in white to send off to be altered into a nursing bra. It should be here late next week. I totally can not wait!

18 months ago, I started a diet plan recommended by my brother Forbes (no, I’m not mentioning it by name, they aren’t paying me, and I’ve free whored enough stuff this week). Number one on the list of things to do was clear out the high fructose corn syrup and hydrogenated blah-b’blah from the house.

I ended up with a small pile of offenders on the countertop.

On the countertop sat the following items:

graham cracker pie crust

chocolate pudding

whipped topping.

Now what should I do… What. Should. I. Do? I was starting a new eating plan… I needed to get this food out of my house….

The chocolate pie with whipped topping tasted great.

I’m pretty sure this isn’t what they had in mind when they said to get rid of the food.

Effective though.

And tasty.

*This post is going to be all about boobs. In keeping with my prior entries, please go check this out. She’s my new hero.*

I have boobs. Big boobs. I could share boobs with each of my readers and still not end up flat chested. Pregnancy and nursing, not doing me any favors.

I get really pissed off when I have to go bra shopping. I also get really pissed off when I hear about how we should all get fitted because most women are wearing the wrong size bra.

Well, yes, when all American bra manufacturers assume that if you have big boobs that you also have a big rib cage.

When I can’t walk into Smutty’s Secret, or Tarzhay, or any freaking department store and actually find a bra that fits, yes, I get bitter and pissy.

I’ve been ashamed of my boobs since puberty hit. I remember not even wanting the flower on the bra because it was too much fluff. Then I remember not being able to find a bra that fit. When I finally found a bra at Nordy’s and they graciously took a 38 and altered it to be a 32, I had my first well fitting bra – at age 22. After that I found a store in Phoenix that I spent most of my paychecks at for many months until I moved away. Then I started ordering online. When we went to Europe last year, we specifically went to London so I could get bras here. (And those bitches REALLY should send me free stuff for all the free advertising I’ve done for them over the years.)

So here’s my secret. I’ve told you my weight, but now I tell you this.

When I was measured last June I was a 32 H.

There. I said it.

(And don’t even get me started on how fucking impossible it has been to find a nursing bra that isn’t a complete joke. I go braless most of the time – because it’s easier, and quite frankly, they aren’t getting any perkier so I might as well be comfortable. Some day I won’t be nursing anymore and I will hoist them back into pretty pretty princess bras. For now it’s all boring nude all the time.)

However, there’s hope, this week I get to go here. (Man, I’m pimpin’ business for way too many people in this post. Believe me, I’m getting nothing monetary out of it, this is strictly public service announcement.) They should have *something* to fit and make me smile. AND I just discovered that when you go to the ‘search for a store‘ link they actually give places that are NOT their own company. I find it completely amazing that a business is so committed to hooking women up with the correct size that they will refer a customer to the “competition”. I suddenly have a whole newfound respect for a company. I might have to buy two bras from them this week!

Sports bras are as much of a problem. It was my comment over here that prompted this rant.

And also because I’m a bit of an attention hog, and since I posted the freakiest boobie shit I’ve ever seen over there – I totally wanted to share it with ya’ll too. (Even though Kelly totally sent me link love.)

It’s not completely safe for work, if for no other reasons than your gasps and snorts may attract some attention.

Shock-o-meter

It’s … shocking all right.

(I’m ending my rant here. Please ask questions, send this on to people you think might benefit from it, I’m a little obsessed with the topic because the happier I am about my girls, the happier I am in general – I can’t be the only one.)