I Need A Funeral For My Boobs

It used to really piss me off during my first pregnancy when people would cattily remark, "Enjoy your boobs now because they will never be the same again."

I always thought that was horribly pessimistic. Every woman's body is different. Who is to say what anyone's body will look like?

Unfortunately in my case they were right. My boobs are not what they used to be.

I had awesome breasts. A gravity-defying rack. I have never been big busted, but I loved what I had and thought that I appreciated them.

Apparently not.

The old cliché of you don't know what you've got until it's gone is a cliché for a reason.

My boobs are worn out. The term "nanny goat" comes to mind. I have either been pregnant or breastfeeding for just over three years. Thirty nine months to be exact.

I don't have much hope that they are going to recover.

I feel like I need a funeral for my boobs. The ones I lost. Kind of like when you have a bad relationship and are sad to break up. You are not in truth sad that you broke up, but you are mourning the dreams you had of where your relationship was going to go.

It is the same now. I mourn the loss of a part of my body that I will never get back. That the outer image does not reflect the inner. I am ashamed of my image in the mirror, and I am ashamed that I am ashamed.

I have gained immeasurable things in return--two beautiful children and the experience of breastfeeding them. I would not trade any of this. And yes, all the moms around me talk about the breast implants or lifts they will be getting. I will not be one of them.

I know it will take time for my wounded pride to heal. Because that is all this is--wounded pride. I do not have breast cancer. I do not have any one of the myriad things that can afflict women in my age group. In the grand scheme of thing this is a trivial complaint. But the little girl in me that finally took so long to flourish into that attractive not-quite-so-gawky woman has taken a beating. I am not ready to let her go, but it is a done deal.

I am big on rituals and rites of passage. They help us transition from one phase in our lives to another. From getting our ears pierced to getting our periods. Our first heartbreak when our mom makes us hot cocoa and let us cry for hours on her shoulder. Our first kiss. Our first tattoo. Getting that first paycheck. Making that first mortgage payment.

I feel, silly as it may sound, that I need to create some kind of ritual that will help me embrace my new body. To say farewell to my old boobs and appreciate the new ones that motherhood has given me. My husband still loves me. My daughter thinks they are perfect. I am the one who needs to see with fresh eyes. I need to find a way to celebrate the woman that I am today, and release the girl that I was.

I'll let you know what I come up with