CONFESSION #1: I LOVE MY BOOBS!

Photo: "Embarrassment"
By Skitch

THEN & NOW:



    The bane of my childhood was being female. I spent most of my first decade of life avoiding the idea that I was going to grow up into something more like my mother than my father. I could plainly see that my dad's life was much more interesting than my mothers, and I truly wanted an interesting life! Plus, I thought the world of my pop, and I wanted to have as many things in common with him as I possibly could. And, the more I was like him the more Momma would love me, I deduced, because she adored him. It would have been a win, win, win situation,I decided, if I'd been born a boy... but I had not.
   
    Even as a very young child, I knew I was a girl, honestly I did, but certain things about being female still managed to sneak up on me and surprise me. My mother shocked and repulsed me when I was about four years old and she saw me pretending I was Tarzan (not wimpy Jane.) Dad and I often watched Tarzan and Daniel Boone on television, and I liked to pretend I was both those leading men, but especially Tarzan. He was so wild and so free! And he hung out with the coolest animals! That day, I was banging on my chest with my little fists as furiously as I could, and she admonished me to stop before I hurt myself or made my boobs grow in crooked. I felt like someone had dumped ice water on me. I had to grow boobs?! Somehow I'd always thought that might be optional, or that I was going to live in an endless state of childhood. Now I knew that not only did I had to grow those things but that they might grow in lop sided! The only thing worse than having boobs would be having one big boob and one little one. I'd walk sideways for the rest of my life. And just like that, playing Tarzan was sullied for life. If I had been born son I would not have to deal with that. Life was so unfair!

    When I was seven years old my first niece, my near-sister, and future best friend was born in one fragile and perfect little bundle. She was cute enough, but I confessed to my family that I sure wish she had been a boy because I would much rather be an uncle than an aunt! The family got a nice laugh out of the idea before they explained that I would have still been an aunt even if my sister had brought home a boy baby. So, I was stuck being an aunt and could never be an uncle. Wow! You just couldn't win in this girly world! Oh, how I wanted to be a boy!

    I was nine years old when someone gave me another reminder about the upcoming boob tragedy, and this time I broke down. I went out into the woods all alone, found a rock to pray against, like I'd seen in the paintings of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, and I knelt against that rock and prayed with all my heart, "God, please, please let this cup pass from me!" I prayed and I cried, but I was not as noble and good as Jesus. I could not end my prayer with "Nevertheless, not as I will, but as you will." This was too important to me! I wasn't convinced that being crucified was worse than growing boobs and being a lop sided ol' girl. Why couldn't I have been born a boy?! My family would be happier. I would be happier. Life would be better. Life would be fair. Life would make more sense. But I was a rotten ol' girl, and I knew that, barring divine intervention, sooner or later I would truly have to face it!

    "Sooner" came when I began to develop breasts a year later. I'd always been super modest, so it wasn't like I suddenly had to put clothes on. That's what happened to my favorite cousin, Ramona. She had grown up naked most of the time when she was at home and suddenly she was growing boobs and they made her start wearing clothing. She was distraught and appalled. Punished! But I didn't need clothing to be punished by my boobs. They hurt, and they looked ridiculous, and people noticed, and - worst of all - talked about them. I wore my largest shirts, pulling them out as loosely as I could in the front, but it was like putting a sheet over a hippo that was following you around. I wasn't hiding much. It felt like I was growing two walnuts inside my skin and playing Tarzan was now a bad idea not because I didn't want crooked boobs, but because just bumping into things very lightly, like my own, hurt a lot, pounding on my new proof of girlness would have been very painful.

    I was suddenly even more modest than I had been. I had spent my life not noticing when my mother or sisters came in the room where I was bathing, but suddenly I did not want a single soul in the room where I was naked. I felt certain that I would burst into tears if they even glanced at my chest. It hurt my mother's feelings that I inexplicably kicked her out of my bathing ritual, but I lacked the vocabulary and the emotional understanding to explain myself. I only knew that I didn't want anyone looking at my chest as long as I lived, with or without my shirt on! And yet, the crazy thing was, people looked at my chest more than ever. Boys seemed to have forgotten that I had eyes. Suddenly, they all talked to my chest. As much as I hated boobs they seemed to love them! So much so, that it made me re-think my desire to be a male. Would I really be so obsessive and so ridiculously wrapped up in those annoying little bumps if I were a boy? Surely not! I did not know it then but I didn't really want to be a guy. I was not the least bit attracted to females. I sometimes recognized that they were beautiful in the same sexless way that a sunset or a horse is beautiful. After I grew more accustomed to being female I would see a beautiful woman and wish that I looked more like her. But I've never seen one and been fascinated with her boobs. I guess what I really wanted to be back then was a gay man, but I didn't even know gay men existed, so I couldn't explain that desire to myself, let alone to anyone else. 

     I read the book, "Are You There God, It's me Margaret." I liked the book a lot, but I wondered what the heck was wrong with that chick! Who WANTS to get their nasty, painful period?! And then I got mine. I sulked around all weekend like I had The Black Plague instead of menses. My mother suggested that I go with Dad as he headed out on some chore that pulled him up the mountain and across our strip job. He said that was a fine idea, so I bundled up and went along, happily getting the point that I could still traipse along behind my daddy even if I was officially a nasty old girl now. As we walked, I made up a song and sang it lightly to myself. I called it, "The World Owes me a Weekend." Daddy caught some of the lyrics and asked me why the world owed me a weekend. I suddenly realized I had practically invited someone to ask me about something I did not want to talk about. I said, "Oh it doesn't. It's just a song I made up." I was very relieved when he did not press with more questions. As we walked along in silence, I realized the world was never giving that weekend back to me. In fact, it would take more and more carefree and bloodless days away from me as time wore on. I don't know if any eleven year old had ever been more depressed over being female. I thought about it long and hard that evening and, in the end, I decided if my mother and sisters could survive it, then I could too!

    Over the years, I grew accustomed to my period and learned how to do most everything during it that I did when I was period free. I also grew more comfortable with the worthless lumps on my chest and the fascination that men had with them. I learned to say, "Hey, I'm up here," when I needed to get someone's attention and to ignore the dazed look on their faces if it didn't really matter. The boobs stopped being constantly painful and started hurting much less and much less often. After they grew in, they still seemed in my way a lot, but they only hurt during my period. I played with the power they brought me and decided maybe there was one small compensation for being saddled with them. It was almost entertaining how alluring they seemed to be to most guys. But it still wasn't enough to make it feel like I'd gotten anything other than the raw end of a deal. I remained convinced: Boys had it made compared to girls. 

     I got married and I was glad my husband thought I was pretty, lumps and all. I still did not personally like those worthless things... And then... I had a baby. My son drew everything he needed from those boobs, and finally I knew why they were there! I knew why that cup had not passed from me. God really did know best! I would not give up motherhood for anything, not even for the treasure of being a male. Fatherhood looked sublime from where I was sitting, but motherhood topped even that! And breastfeeding only made motherhood better! I had friends that were bottle feeding their babies and they talked about the store being out of the brand of formula their baby was used to, and the stomach aches it caused to switch brands. They talked about colic and gas. They mentioned some mothers in an area where a natural disaster had hit, mothers that could not get any formula for their babies. They talked of stocking up on that precious milk and lining it up beside their bottled water and canned food, just in case. As they wrung their hands and knitted their brows, I realized that, as long as I could find water and food to put in my own stomach, my son would eat the best milk he could possibly have. Sure, baby clothes are nice and diapers are very convenient, but in a worse case situation, I could snuggle my son under my own clothes up against my breast, and he would have food and warmth in one package. He would be just fine! Absolutely everything he needed my boobs could supply. I was not prepared for the joy of breast feeding, for the peace of mind it gave me, for the fact that I felt the same way when my son pulled the nourishment he needed from me as I did when I was praying. 

     I nursed and weaned that baby, then had another, and the boobs kept on giving. They nurtured my second son in the same way. As my sons grew they would fall asleep on the soft lumps and their faces would be lax and peaceful. They would listen to my heartbeat and grow still, and sleep in my arms, against those soft, warm boobs. My sons found my arms, and my heartbeat, and my beasts to be a sanctuary from anything that frightened or hurt them. And I grew to love the boobs that fed them, comforted them, softened their world while they slept. I finally realized that it is not always about me, not even with my own body. I might not have needed them or seen their purpose, but some people in the future, very important people indeed, needed them, and those girly boobs had a very wonderful purpose in the world.

    And that's why, after years of hating them, I can confess: I love my boobs!