I had to start wearing a bra when I was in fifth grade. I started slouching then too, in an effort to hide my, umm, assets. I hated them from the start.
By seventh grade, I was 5'6", weighed between 113 amd 117 and wore a 32C. It was awful.
I think I was about fourteen when I heard my mom and her sisters talking one evening. Her more volumptuous sister, Nell, mentioned laughingly, "I think Amy (her daughter) took after you and Tommie got my figure."
I cried for hours after hearing that. I didn't want to look like my aunt, I wanted to be tall and slim like my mom.
But I wasn't. At least, I didn't feel like I was. I look back now and realize that I was very thin, just not straight up and down like I wanted. I felt like my chest me my entire body fat. I wanted them gone.
I've never been one to flaunt what I've got. Thank goodness I was a teenager of the eights, when layers and big, boxy jackets were in. And I was in college during the ninetys, when shirts three sizes too big were the thing.
If the fashions of today were the style then, I may never had left the house. I could never have worn those tight, thin T-shirts that are all the rage.
When I was pregnant with Alyssa, I thought for sure my relationship with my boobs would change. I though, "Finally, they can redeem themselves. They can prove they've been worth all these years of angst and bother."
They just reinforced my hatred of them.
Neither of my girls were ever able to nurse from my breasts. And it was not my daughters' fault. It was MY fault. It was my breasts fault. This inability to give my children the closeness and the comfort of a breastfeeding relationship just confirmed to me what I'd known all along, these things were usesless and hateful.
I was able to use a breast pump and provide sustenance for each of my girls for two months or more (two months for O and 14 weeks for A.) But pumping is evil. It's time consuming, it's painful and it's just plain horrible. I couldn't justify pumping more than two months for Olivia because I felt like I was neglecting both her and Alyssa because of the damned pump. And because my boobs failed, AGAIN.
But the hatred couldn't last.
Because how can I hate something (some things?) that Olivia find such confort in? Sure, they couldn't feed her but she loves to settle her head onto my ample bosom and sigh as if she's come home. She loves to plump them up and say, "I missed your boobies."
How can I hate these things that she finds so endearing?
So we've come to an uneasy truce, my boobs and I. They stay out of the way and I'll...well, I'll keep supporting them with decently made, non-inexpensive, well-fitting bras. That's the best I can do.