I was a 36B. On my pregnancy journey…a trip I like to call “my quest to become the biggest woman on the planet”…I became a 42DD. After baby and exercise, I went back to a 36B. Granted, I’m a little flatter than before. But at the same time, fuller in one way…with pride.
I breastfed my daughter. Because of a scheduled mammogram I had, I could only do it for nine months. But it was something. I mean that in every way.
I won’t get into any debate over whether to or to not BF, when to stop BF, how to BF, etc. (I have always said, however, that if your kid can say “got milk?,” you should stop immediately.) Each of these decisions is the woman’s own. Not mine. I have my opinions and will share them only when asked. (Although whip your boob out in front of me at a nice restaurant and my opinion might be shared without asking.)
Breastfeeding to me was an incredible experience between my child and me. I think of this whenever I wear a tank top and the “girls” are smidge lower than they started out. It was all for a good cause. I found this sweet article from Marie Claire on how breastfeeding changed one woman’s feelings about her breasts.
As a girl, I was not keen on developing breasts. I watched with trepidation as my older sisters entered this milestone: Laura was told by my stepmother to pray that she wouldn’t inherit my mother’s overly ample bust; Sarah was given (also by my stepmother) a purple, lacy bra at age 11 in preparation for her budding breasts—she hooked it to the tip of a piece of kindling, stuck it in the fire like a marshmallow, and watched it burn. It was the early 1970s; the women’s movement was in full swing. Bra-burning myths and bralessness, complexities—I wanted none of that. When my breasts blossomed into an unobtrusive 34B, I was relieved. My breasts stirred little emotion. They were just there; simply a fact. Then I had a baby, and everything changed. Read more.
Did you breastfeed? If so, did it change your own views of your body? Leave me a comment and let me know.