Dear amazing nursing breasts,
It is with a heavy heart that I bid you farewell, my beloved C-cups.
My daughter is 14 months old now, and our breastfeeding relationship will soon be coming to an end. Yes, the two of you are slowly drying up, practically reduced to your pre-pregnancy shapes (ish) and sizes. Also known as barely B-cups. Hardly a handful. Nearly non-existent.
My shirts are already starting to fit awkwardly, with no more milk left to fill them out.
I remember mid-way through my pregnancies when bras started getting snug. It was such a novel feeling for me, a late bloomer who was thrilled to graduate from A to B cups in college. Then, when my milk finally came in after delivery? Holy bazongas! None of my shirts fit. (And not because of my post-pregnancy belly, which retracted surprisingly fast.) Nope. The girls were the ones who ended up with tiny stretch marks!
(And when I happened to be engorged? Porn star material, I’m telling ya.)
Dearest breasts, you have provided nourishment and comfort to my two children for a collective 29 months so far. I’m so thankful for your around-the-clock diligence. You may have given me the middle finger with a clogged duct here and there, but we’ve made a pretty decent team. You girls even endured that blasted impostor — the suck-tastic breast pump — for months on end. For that, I am also grateful.
We’ve had a good run, the three of us. Sadly, I may never fit into a C-cup again; my husband and I could very well be two and through. (Or not. I’ll keep those bigger bras around for a while longer, just in case.)
If we never meet again, gigantic milk-filled boobs — you will still live in some of my fondest memories.
Sincerely,
A nearly-milk-less mom
