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They are a wondrous and complicated thing, the mammary glands.

I recently told my husband that I want my boobs back. (I’m pretty sure he wants them back too.) I am blessed with the biology of one of my aunts, which puts me at about 38C/D … just enough to get some attention and to not be able to fit clothes off the rack. My pregnancy sent me up to the land of double Ds, and breastfeeding has shot me straight to an E.

Hubba hubba.

Really, maternity clothes made fitting the girls okay. It’s all proportional. And now that Max is eating real food three times a day, I’ve given up the horror of the pump, a.k.a., the mama milking machine. All in all, I should be grateful to the boobs; they’re balancing out my extra twenty pounds! Although, it would be nice to fit into some of my pre-pregnancy tops without looking like a porn star.

Nursing itself is something I’m still totally in love with … it contains a level of intimacy that is almost indescribable. For me, it has to do with sustenance. It’s a word in my overly-food-i-fied life that I treasure; I love to cook and I love creating nourishment and happiness for those at my table.

But nursing; nursing is sustenance in action. It’s in the complexity of noises Max makes, a cooing, contented, sighing thing. It’s the way he kicks his leg or waves his arms with satisfaction, or how he can still smile and stay latched on when I tickle him behind the knee. It’s stroking his little head as his eyelids slowly gain the weight of sleep. It is about being part of helping my son grow, still, now that he has left the safety of my body.

So in the end, I’m cool with the tatas. They’re for a good cause. Really, I should have said, “I want my bras back.” I’m so over wearing a bra 24 hours a day! I’m over constantly re-stuffing my breasts into the bra cups, because when I was five months pregnant I let the sales girl at Motherhood Maternity talk me into buying a size “up” from what I needed. I’m over lying on my side and everything just falling out. (If I could figure out a way to just stick the nursing pads to my skin, and chuck the bra, I would.) I’m over leaving my dresser drawer, dedicated to all things Victoria’s Secret, untouched. And I’m definitely over the same three choices: Beige. Black. White. Woohoo.

When our year of breastfeeding is over, I may ceremoniously torch my nursing bras, and make it a part of this journey through the fourth trimester. It will bring me one step closer to re-capturing the “me” I was before pregnancy. Hopefully that’s a me that back in a 38C.

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