An Apology Letter To My Post Baby Boobs
Written at 3am in full delirium.
I’m sorry, but this just isn’t about you anymore.
You were having a good run, and I realize you were blindsided.
There you were, going about your booby days in all your booby glory, minding your own booby business.
Maybe not as perky as you were 10 years ago, but still hangin in there, doin your thing.
Ironically, for months before the barracuda arrived…you expanded! You became the epitome of fullness and the aforementioned perk returned tenfold!!
Your owner spent her days at home parading you around, unsheathed!! For she alone knew your downfall was imminent, and she wanted to give you one last hurrah.
You didn’t know about the 8 lb barracuda that would soon claim you as his own.
You had no warning of the toothless piranha that would attach himself to you with so much gusto that, despite the lack of teeth, it cuts off all your circulation and makes you turn white after every feed. (Even your owner didn’t expect that-but she just throws it on the pile of what-the-fuck that is postpartum everything)
You were decorated in pretty little lace homes, or pushed up to see the sky in uber-supportive neon-colored Brazilian sporty homes, or comfy in loose cotton homes with zero support
…Never to be seen again.
Your nipples were small and delicate…never imagining the alien spaceship that would take their place. That dark, orb-like flying saucer that attached itself to your front side.
And what’s that? A hair? Maybe a skin tag?
Oh no! A red spot!
Fear not, old friend…that’s merely a burst capillary…no doubt, a gift from the extreme weight of liquid that has arrived.
You are now so heavy your owner has to shove a burp cloth in between you when sleeping on her side, to relieve your side-boob of the weight.
From here on, every day is your best. Tomorrow will be slightly worse… slightly….lower.
Yet fear not! You shall not venture into darkness alone.
No, no. I bequeath you…a friend… “Lower abdomen”.
He has seen horrors you know not of.
Be grateful for that.
And for his friendship. You will journey together, side by side, until one day, you’ll be close enough to touch! And your “battle scars” as my husband so lovingly and infuriatingly calls them (I’m pretty sure he read that in a “how to talk to your hormonal, postpartum wife” article)… will soon meet! And become one…forming an exact blueprint of the London Underground … The fateful city where your owner and her unsuspecting husband first spoke of attempting to create the very same barracuda who has taken your youth and beauty.
But what’s this??
Another friend to join the party?
Ah yes! “Upper thighs/lower buttock!”
They are not to be outdone! They will see your squishy-ness and raise it some cellulite!
So you see, kind friends…you are not alone.
And I salute you.
For you are doing the most important work.
Sustaining the life force of the barracuda.
A temperamental, flaily, unpredictable leader for sure…but also a sweet, adorable, cuddly one.
You fight the barracuda valiantly, perfecting your aim, squirting him in the eye or up the nose when he tries to pull away too soon…but the victories are small and fleeting.
It is inevitable.
He is going to win.
And he loves you more than anything right now.
And later, if you are attached to the beings of his preferred sexual orientation, he will love you even more.
Not you, per se. Because that would be creepy.
This is not a Greek myth.
Wow. This got real weird.
Any body parts you’d like to apologize to?