New Year. New Tits!

After the year that was 2020, I finally said fuck it.  I’m doing this.  I’m getting my tits done.  And by getting my tits done, I mean chopping some of them off and lifting them up.  The post nursing boobs got a facelift, y’all!   

If you had told me 10 years ago that I would be so desperate to reduce the size of my little fun bags, I would have said you.are.crazy.  I’ve been a cute little B cup my entire life, but after I had my two daughters, my tits swelled into something I could hardly fit through the damn door.  I remember desperately trying to squeeze the ladies into a nursing bra that was clearly too small, only to cause a constant string of clogged ducts and throbbing milk udders.  My tits were SCREAMING at me. 

I was in total denial.  Like, there’s no way these things are this massive and this painful.  No one told me this would happen to me, and this was definitely not in the shit-that-will-happen-to-you-after-you-have-a-baby manual that I didn’t read.  A friend of mine finally convinced me to go to Nordstrom to get fitted for a nursing bra, and I distinctly remember the words that came out of the retail associate’s mouth: “YOU’RE AN E CUP.” 

I’m sorry, come again S’il vous plait ? Did you say E, as in excuse me? “Yes, honey I said an E.”  She was so kind and could tell that I was in a state of tit shock, doing her absolute best to prevent me from continuing to shove my giant tatas into a trainer bra.  Anyway, I finally accepted my tit fate and started wearing nursing bras that actually fit. 

To make my nursing matters even more special, I was diagnosed with Raynaud’s syndrome in my nipples.  You know, that disease where a person’s fingers and toes lose circulation and turn white?  Yep, I had Raynaud’s in my NIPS.  Cool, cool.  Again, NOT in the manual.  Every time one of the girls would latch, it felt like someone was straight up single white female stabbing me in the chest.  When I first started nursing, I was like GOOD GOD this is what it’s supposed to feel like?  I was toe-curling miserable but so determined to keep nursing. 

After my 100th trip to see the lactation nurse (who by the way are the true MVPs of postpartum care), she suggested I put frozen cabbage leaves on my boobs to see if that would help.  Roughly two minutes into frozen vegetable leaves on my chest, I felt like I was going to DIE.  Thankfully, I had a few Vicodin left from my butthole delivery, and they kindly pulled me off the ledge.   I called the lactation nurse to report my near death experience, and her lightbulb went off.  She said, “Oh honey, I think you have Raynaud’s.” I’m sorry, WTF is that?  Why is everyone dropping “Oh honey’s” on me?  GAWD can’t a girl get a break?           

Turns out, every time I nursed I would have to heat the bejesus out of my boobs to get the blood circulating in an effort to uncurl my toes ever so slightly as soon as the babe would latch.  Nursing both girls was painful and traumatic to say the least, but it was a beautiful misery.  There’s just something about holding your little infant as they fill up their tummies, gently rocking them back and forth while they gulp and breathe out of their tiny little noses.  It’s a connection like no other - an unbreakable bond between baby and mama.  I experienced a tough, tough road, like many women do, but it was so worth it, and I’m beyond grateful for it. 

 While nursing was an incredible gift, the shrapnel it left behind was not.  My boobs returned to normal-ish after Amelia (my first), but they decided to remain large and in charge after Virginia (my second).  I’ve hated them.  They were uncomfortable, intrusive, heavy and just not me.  So, after 7 years of this shit, I decided I was done.  And 2021 was the year. 

When you become a mother and start raising little babies, toddlers and young children, focusing on yourself starts to slip away into the oblivion of motherhood.  You’re so busy changing diapers, pulling fingers out of electrical sockets, wiping snotty noses, playing peek-a-boo and counting to three but not having a fucking clue what you’re going to do when you get to three.  New clothes?  What’s the point.  Treat yourself to a facial?  No time.  It’s almost as if your old self is just floating above you, waiting for her cue to come back down.  It’s a beautiful phase of life but also a total black out.   

As the kids get older and don’t need you for every little thing, you slowly but surely start to slip out of the early motherhood stupor and back into yourself.  You look in the mirror and think, “What in holy hell happened to me?  Was I in a car accident?”  Yes, in fact you were in several car accidents over the course of many years, but you somehow limped away from the scene every time.  Because if anyone can survive repeated head on collisions, a mom can. 

So here I am, finally, in this second phase of motherhood where I can actually buy new clothes without someone shitting or throwing up on them, and I have time to get a facial here and there.  I’ve emerged from the black out and am ready to start doing things for myself.  The woman I was before children will never be the woman I am now or in the future.  But I can sure as hell try to come close, which brings me to my decision to get my boobs done.  Oh, and I really like Botox.  But not too much.  Just enough. 

So if you’re in the throes of the early motherhood coma, do not despair.  Take care of yourself as much as you can, and know that we’ve all been there.  Like I said, it’s a beautiful phase of life but can really put a dent in your self care routine.  Lift those tits up off the ground and hang in there.  This too shall pass. 

I’m six months out now from surgery, and I feel great.  The girls are high and tight.  The scars are still healing and the sensation is still coming back, but I’m told that this will likely take a year.  I have what’s called the “lollipop” scar – a scar around the nips and down.  I did not get implants.  Basically, my surgeon took some breast tissue out, and lifted the girls up.  I still don’t quite understand the logistics of it, but whatever forever that’s what a surgeon is for.  My surgeon is Rachel Streu, MD with Waldorf Center for Plastic Surgery.  She is angelic.  Literally.  She looks like Snow White and is so calm and so enchanting.  Highly recommend.   

If you’re considering it, get a consultation. You don’t have to commit. She’ll evaluate you and tell you what’s what. And, they’ll give you an estimate of cost. Typically, insurance won’t cover this surgery unless you have long-term documentation of neck/back issues and need to take out a certain amount of breast tissue. I was not covered, so I saved up all of my babysitting money.

And now, I don’t have to wear a bra if I don’t want to. HELLOOOOOOOOOO. They are…the TITS.

Of course, I storied the before and after of surgery. Check it out here: https://www.instagram.com/stories/highlights/17844503579601720/.