Finally, I'm ready to accept you, my healthy baby-feeding friends. Although you don't look the same, I'm not going to trade you in for a younger-looking model, like a man might.
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Dear Breasts,

We've had a parting of ways of late. Two pregnancies and two breastfed babies later, you've decided to de-friend me and befriend gravity, rendering me beholden to the much-needed sturdy, non-sexy bras that no woman wants to be seen buying. Without them, you are well on your way to touching my toes. However, in spite of your impudence and your defiant desire to move in directions that my 20-something former self would never have imagined, we now stand at a crossroads in my mid-30s, both literally and figuratively. I could scream, rant and rave, putting the best plastic surgeons on speed dial, or I could sit back and accept my new udder-like image.

In truth, loving you was never easy. When I was younger, a washboard chest was not as enviable as having washboard abs. Then, a few years into adolescence, you grew overnight. Having only really ever known A-grades, I was suddenly confronted with the letter D, the upside of which was copious amounts of male attention. I often wondered if you were my friends or my foes. In the end, you became the best "wingmen" a gal could ever ask for. Many dates (some good and many bad) later, I found myself in the arms of the perfect man and ended up marrying him, a self-confessed breast man who worshipped at the altar of my beckoning bosom.

You provided sustenance, albeit for a short period, for my two suckling infants, giving them nutrition and some wonderful mother-child bonding. And, for doing the job that you were created to perform, what gratitude did you receive? A Gasherbrum II (aka G2)-like climb into double-G territory and unattractive military-grade brassieres. What did I get? Upper back and neck pain.

So, where to from here? I've met with Kübler-Ross and have gracefully gone through her first four stages of grief:

Me to husband: "Honey, my breasts don't really look like two-gallon milk bags, do they?"

"Damn you, breasts -- my button-down shirts no longer close!"

"If you would just stay inside the confines of the cotton and wire infrastructure holding you up without spilling over and making me look like I have four mammaries instead of two, I promise to love you again and buy you something pretty."

Me to husband: "No man will ever find me attractive again with these sagging sisters."

Husband: "I find you attractive."

Me: "You don't count."

Finally, I'm ready to accept you, my healthy baby-feeding friends. Although you don't look the same, I'm not going to trade you in for a younger-looking model, like a man might. Maybe one day, I will gift you (let's be honest, I'd be gifting my back) with a redux and lift, but for now, I plan on avoiding the risks of not awakening from a general anesthetic. You've been my men magnets, given good eats to my kidlets, provided good fun for my husband and never betrayed me with illness. Let's frolic down the road of life together, as we find ourselves now, enjoying the extra swing and bounce in our united step.

For more of Naomi's writing, visit, read her debut novel Deathbed Dimes and follow her on Twitter @satiricalmama.

© 2014. Naomi Elana Zener. All Rights Reserved.

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