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Emptied breasts
Well done, good and faithful servants
I remember my first bra. I was in sixth grade. We lived in Pine Valley out in East County. My mother did not over-romanticize girlhood rituals. When I was in third grade, in response to some question I’d asked about sex, my mother tossed a book on my bed. The slim pamphlet had a soft gray cardboard cover. The title read, “A Doctor Answers Your Questions about Adolescence." My mom said, “Read this. If you have any questions, ask me.”
I read the book. I remember the simple pencil drawings of the male and female anatomy. The book talked about the changes my body would undergo during the next few years. “Your breasts will grow,” the book read. “Your nipples will become larger and darken.”
After I read the book, I watched my body for changes. The book was right. I was one of the first girls in my class to get a real bra. Missy Ferman got a bra before I did — a training bra. During the summer before fifth grade. Missy Perman’s mom, a bottle blonde who snapped her gum and drove a Mustang convertible, took Missy to JCPenney and got her a lacy pink and white confection. The first day of school, a small group of girls Missy had hand-selected gathered around her in the girls’ bathroom. Missy lifted her shirt to show us her prize. I looked enviously at the pink and white lace that covered Missy’s flat chest.
“That’s not a bra,” I scoffed. I had seen bras before. My mother, who was heavyset and well endowed, wore brassieres that were wonders of engineering, with their straps and underwires and enormous cups. “That looks like a fancy undershirt.”
Missy stuck out her tongue and quickly pulled her shirt down. “At least I’ve got one,” she shot back.
I couldn’t argue with her. Until sixth grade. One Saturday morning, my mother drove me to Montgomery Ward in Mission Valley. She held the heavy glass door open for me as we stepped into the store. The warm, buttery smell of fresh caramel corn wafted over from the candy counter. My mom held my hand as we rode up the escalator to the foundation department. When I was in sixth grade, ladies didn’t wear lingerie. They wore foundation garments.
My mom helped me pick out a simple white bra. “The most important thing,” she explained, “is that it fit comfortably.” I cherished the one adornment, a small pink bow that nestled between the modest cups.
Since that day, I have probably owned a hundred bras. In high school, I stuck with the plain white variety. In college and after, I ventured out into lace and colors. I even tried a few merry widows and corsets when my husband Jack and I were first married. Sexy lingerie soon gave way to maternity bras and nursing garments — massive constructions of Spandex and elastic to rein in my overfull breasts. I nursed five babies in eight years.
Three weeks ago, my youngest child, Benjamin, stopped nursing. Ben is 9 months old. He is a big boy. At 24 pounds, he weighs as much as the average 15-month-old. Ben nursed voraciously for the first 4 months of his life. Then, at the pediatrician’s suggestion, I started feeding Ben solid food. My baby boy gobbled down rice cereal and mashed bananas and applesauce. Within a few months, he started spitting out the mushy baby slop and grabbing for real food. Now he eats toast and noodles and grapes cut in half.
When Ben was five months old, I started giving him an occasional bottle. Our babysitter, Becky, would feed Ben a bottle before his nap on the afternoons I left him with her. Three weeks ago, I came home from running errands to find Ben and Becky playing on the floor. “Do you think he’s ready for a nap?” I asked Becky.
“Probably,” she answered. “He’s been putting his head down.”I sat down on the couch and drew Ben to me. He turned his head away. I tried again. He bit me. “OUCH,” I cried. '
Ben smiled.
“I guess we’re done with that,” I said.
Over the next few days, I tried a few more times to nurse Ben. He wasn’t interested.
When Ben stopped nursing, my breasts deflated like balloons. A couple of nights ago, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror getting ready for bed. The house was silent and cool. I pulled my T-shirt off and unbuckled my bra. Before I lifted my nightgown over my head, I paused and looked in the mirror. My breasts lay against my chest like an afterthought — two stretched-out nylon socks suspended from a wall of flesh.
Later, with the lights off, I lay in bed and wept. For the changes in my body. For the fact that I’m done nursing. I will be 40 next year. I don’t generally look like I’m almost 40. Now I have a chest that looks like it belongs on an old woman.
My oldest daughter, Rebecca, is eight and a half. Soon, she will be asking questions. Soon, I will explain to her the changes she can expect in her body. Soon, we will go to a department store and buy her a bra. If my body keeps changing at this rate, I may have to find myself a training bra while we’re there.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Emptied breasts
Well done, good and faithful servants
Emptied breasts
Well done, good and faithful servants
I remember my first bra. I was in sixth grade. We lived in Pine Valley out in East County. My mother did not over-romanticize girlhood rituals. When I was in third grade, in response to some question I’d asked about sex, my mother tossed a book on my bed. The slim pamphlet had a soft gray cardboard cover. The title read, “A Doctor Answers Your Questions about Adolescence." My mom said, “Read this. If you have any questions, ask me.”
I read the book. I remember the simple pencil drawings of the male and female anatomy. The book talked about the changes my body would undergo during the next few years. “Your breasts will grow,” the book read. “Your nipples will become larger and darken.”
After I read the book, I watched my body for changes. The book was right. I was one of the first girls in my class to get a real bra. Missy Ferman got a bra before I did — a training bra. During the summer before fifth grade. Missy Perman’s mom, a bottle blonde who snapped her gum and drove a Mustang convertible, took Missy to JCPenney and got her a lacy pink and white confection. The first day of school, a small group of girls Missy had hand-selected gathered around her in the girls’ bathroom. Missy lifted her shirt to show us her prize. I looked enviously at the pink and white lace that covered Missy’s flat chest.
“That’s not a bra,” I scoffed. I had seen bras before. My mother, who was heavyset and well endowed, wore brassieres that were wonders of engineering, with their straps and underwires and enormous cups. “That looks like a fancy undershirt.”
Missy stuck out her tongue and quickly pulled her shirt down. “At least I’ve got one,” she shot back.
I couldn’t argue with her. Until sixth grade. One Saturday morning, my mother drove me to Montgomery Ward in Mission Valley. She held the heavy glass door open for me as we stepped into the store. The warm, buttery smell of fresh caramel corn wafted over from the candy counter. My mom held my hand as we rode up the escalator to the foundation department. When I was in sixth grade, ladies didn’t wear lingerie. They wore foundation garments.
My mom helped me pick out a simple white bra. “The most important thing,” she explained, “is that it fit comfortably.” I cherished the one adornment, a small pink bow that nestled between the modest cups.
Since that day, I have probably owned a hundred bras. In high school, I stuck with the plain white variety. In college and after, I ventured out into lace and colors. I even tried a few merry widows and corsets when my husband Jack and I were first married. Sexy lingerie soon gave way to maternity bras and nursing garments — massive constructions of Spandex and elastic to rein in my overfull breasts. I nursed five babies in eight years.
Three weeks ago, my youngest child, Benjamin, stopped nursing. Ben is 9 months old. He is a big boy. At 24 pounds, he weighs as much as the average 15-month-old. Ben nursed voraciously for the first 4 months of his life. Then, at the pediatrician’s suggestion, I started feeding Ben solid food. My baby boy gobbled down rice cereal and mashed bananas and applesauce. Within a few months, he started spitting out the mushy baby slop and grabbing for real food. Now he eats toast and noodles and grapes cut in half.
When Ben was five months old, I started giving him an occasional bottle. Our babysitter, Becky, would feed Ben a bottle before his nap on the afternoons I left him with her. Three weeks ago, I came home from running errands to find Ben and Becky playing on the floor. “Do you think he’s ready for a nap?” I asked Becky.
“Probably,” she answered. “He’s been putting his head down.”I sat down on the couch and drew Ben to me. He turned his head away. I tried again. He bit me. “OUCH,” I cried. '
Ben smiled.
“I guess we’re done with that,” I said.
Over the next few days, I tried a few more times to nurse Ben. He wasn’t interested.
When Ben stopped nursing, my breasts deflated like balloons. A couple of nights ago, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror getting ready for bed. The house was silent and cool. I pulled my T-shirt off and unbuckled my bra. Before I lifted my nightgown over my head, I paused and looked in the mirror. My breasts lay against my chest like an afterthought — two stretched-out nylon socks suspended from a wall of flesh.
Later, with the lights off, I lay in bed and wept. For the changes in my body. For the fact that I’m done nursing. I will be 40 next year. I don’t generally look like I’m almost 40. Now I have a chest that looks like it belongs on an old woman.
My oldest daughter, Rebecca, is eight and a half. Soon, she will be asking questions. Soon, I will explain to her the changes she can expect in her body. Soon, we will go to a department store and buy her a bra. If my body keeps changing at this rate, I may have to find myself a training bra while we’re there.
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