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Location: Northern California

Saturday, August 06, 2005


Of socks and oranges

A couple of nights ago I attended a Moms Night Out function put together by my local mothers club. It was fabulous. About fifteen of us met at a local watering hole & dinner hot spot and imbibed yummy mixed drinks and consumed delicious frou frou appetizers. It was a lot of fun and I'm glad that I had gone out the day before and bought some sexy new shoes to wear to the event. I had a Patti LaBelle-style new attitude and I was feeling good from my head to my shoes.

Which brings me to an area midway between my head and my shoes: my boobs.

If you've ever had the pleasure of encountering a post-breastfeeding set of boobies then you know they are like two balloons. Two balloons with all of the air sucked out of them. Literally. I've lamented before about my post-Emily boobs and Lord only knows what I'll find when I look down after my months of breastfeeding Thomas, the boy who likes to eat. I have to admit that if I were to write up a list of the pros and cons of nursing, As long as I nurse I'll still have boobs would be very high in the pro column, maybe even higher than Breast is best, although maybe not as high as Keeps the kid quiet on airplanes.

While enjoying those fabulous cocktails the other night, I was involved in an interesting conversation with a group of three other moms. The topic was our boobs or lack thereof. The topic itself wasn't that interesting -- I've discussed sagging mammary glands before with other mom friends, heck with the entire Internet no less. No, the conversation was interesting because these women were seriously contemplating doing something about it. They were saving up for plastic surgery, aka: boob jobs.

In her book Confessions of a Slacker Wife, Muffy Mead-Ferro writes candidly about her own boob job. She had breast implants prior to having her kids and after breastfeeding she knew something had gone horribly wrong. She went to her doctor to find out about getting the implants taken out.

"I feel like I've got a pair of oranges in a pair of socks," I declared, having assumed an akward sitting position on the exam table. "And I want them removed."

Not pulling any punches himself, sitting comfortably in a chair, [her doctor] replied, "So your plan is to leave here with just the pair of socks, then."

Mead-Ferro rethought her original decision and instead decided to get new oranges to replace the old ones.

Even though it's still up in the air what permanent damage has been caused by my unselfish devotion to my children, I don't think I have the guts to get a boob job. I did birth two children and lived to tell about episiotomies, second degree tears, and hemorrhoids so large you can't walk right, but I don't relish the thought of more pain, especially elected pain. Most likely in a couple of months after I've weaned Mr. T, I'll be checking out the Wonderbra, which I can only hope was designed with sock storage in mind.