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.

What’s happening at 3am? Don’t worry, Baby Bop is on the case

Sleep. It’s all I can think about. I want it. It’s the number one thing on my Hanukkah/Christmas list. I’d love to blog about something else, but I’m so sleepy.

Last night I put Baby Bop to bed. I popped my head out to Captain,

“I’m going to bed.”

He glances at the clock.

“It’s 7pm!”

“Yup.” The thought of doing anything else besides sleeping makes me feel very tired.

Baby Bop gets up four times a night to eat: 11pm, 1am, 3am, 5am. The 5am one may or may not be up for the day. Sometimes I squeak out another hour until 6. On a rare occasion she’ll sleep till 7 or later. In which case I feel like a new woman. Most days I feel like a sleepy sack of boobies.

Also all the times are very approximate. I never have a clear recollection of what happens at night. Some of the night Baby Bop is in her bassinet and some of the night she’s on my boob. Whatever happens, it’s messing with my sleep.

Before Baby Bop, I’d write my blog first thing in the morning, 11am, while I was fresh. Now  11am is the middle of my day and first thing in the morning I do not feel fresh. I do not feel like writing a blog at 5am, but then it doesn’t get any easier at 7am and then by the time 10am rolls around I decide I’ll do it another day.

That’s what happens to other things like cleaning and laundry, but I’ve never felt like I really wanted to do those in the first place.

I’d be resigned to this being what life is like with a baby, but I feel like we’re so close to a solution. Baby Bop eats from one boob per feeding. This happens all day long as well as at night, but I don’t care at 10am when I’m not writing a blog.

If I could get her to eat both boobs, she’d sleep for double the time. Or at least that’s my dream. During the day I offer her the second boob and she arches her back, throws her head to the side and will resort to screaming if I force the issue. At night she feigns deep deep sleep. Which will only last 2 hours.

This morning at 5 am Captain and I lie with a babbling Baby Bop between us. Neither of us is sleeping and neither of us can face the idea of getting out of bed. Captain asks,

“Can she stay here and play in bed?”

Baby Bop screeches. That’s her new skill. I tell Captain,

“Then no one will sleep.”

“Yes, but we’ll still be in bed.”

I am now out of bed and flying to San Diego tomorrow. We’ll see how Baby Bop likes a little jet lag.


Hello 5am and soft filter. Don’t worry, I just got a hair cut.

Got good food? I’ll make milk

It’s hard to keep track of all the different parts of my body that have changed. Never mind what’s changed back. Who am I?

The changes I want to keep, clear skin and slow-growing leg hair, are both no more. I’m a mom with a head of straight and curly hair. My leg hair is out of control. When I manage to have a shower and there’s time to wash my hair OR shave my legs, I prioritize my hair.

My feet have gone from a size 10 to a size 11. Looks-wise they’re the same. So no vanity issues. Size-wise I have a problem. I’ve never been a crazy shoe-shopper person, but I like them and I wear them. I’ve been a size 10 for 20 years. That’s a lot of time to amass a reasonable shoe collection. Now all I can do is look at it. Don’t get me started on my two-year-old ski boots.

My boobs are another story. They’re huge compared to pre-pregnancy, but not that big compared to other milk-filled boobs. They used to just hang out and keep to themselves. Now they’re acting like they’re running the show. They’re colluding with my subconscious mind.

The other night Captain and I pick up takeout. We get home and I take my shirt off. Our place is officially a topless joint. If I’m not nursing, then I’m letting them air out.

I chow down on my salad with spicy peanut dressing. It’s so good! I hear something drip on the floor, did I spill salad dressing? I look down. Nothing. I continue to devour my salad. More dripping. What’s happening? I look down again. Milk is spurting out of both boobs.

My oxytocin is flowing.

Captain rushes to get me a burp cloth. He tells me,

“I definitely don’t enjoy my food as much as you do.”