Squishy squashy mommy milkies

Yesterday, I had my first mammogram. OUCH. Maybe only small-chested people over 40 will understand. It was PAINFUL.

I’ve always had small breasts. They got somewhat larger when I gained weight in college; they just about quadrupled in size when I had babies. Then poof. I really don’t know where they went.

The other night I attempted to change into my PJs by myself, BB came in my room, put her hands on my chest and remarked,

“Your breasts are very small.”

“Smaller than they’ve ever been.”


“I don’t know. It’s like they fed you two and now they’re saying ‘our work here is done.'”

They are completely deflated. Or maybe that’s how my 40-year-old breasts were going to look no matter what they’ve been up or down to.

BB adds,

“They’re really saggy.”

Captain pops his head in,

“No they’re not!”

I’m not sure when putting my jammies on became a family activity, but here we are.

And they may be floppy, but they’re not that saggy. There’s nothing to sag.

A month ago, my midwife mentioned a mammogram may hurt. She said,

“It can be difficult when there’s not a lot of breast tissue.”

If I was looking forward to my mammogram before, I wasn’t anymore.

Yesterday I was in the doctor’s office for something else and on my way out I ask,

“While I’m here, could I schedule my mammogram?”

“Sure. I have February or how’s right now?

“I’ll take right now.”

The woman doing my mammogram starts with the small amount of breast tissue on my left. My face is smushed against the plastic shield. I’m trying to breathe through the pain. Then she tells me not to breathe.

We move onto the right. EVEN MORE PAINFUL. The mammographer observes,

“Maybe this side is smaller?”

“It is.” I squeak.

Remind me to start with the right next time.

I felt like I just about got a rib bone on there too. I contemplate my sore chest. I stopped nursing a year ago, but I can still hand-express breastmilk. Seems odd, but I don’t mind. Nostalgia’s got me clinging to any last signs of babyhood.

RB still has fond memories. Every once in awhile, she looks at my chest, sighs and says,

“Can I kiss the mommy milkies?”

Might as well love up whatever is left.

I may never think of s’mores the same way again.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s