If I could have a conversation with my twenty-something self I would first ask if I could just touch my boobs for a minute. The sad look of longing as I stared at those little perky things in their prime would be enough to convince my Young Self to hesitantly say yes, but only through the bra. Said bra would inevitably be cute and lacy, and not have eighties-shoulder-pad-grade cups that betray the illusion that ‘the girls’ are still hanging out where they belong. I would tell Young Self about my kids and explain that while they are my greatest accomplishment they are why we can’t have nice things, like boobs and expensive tableware, anymore.
When you’re a parent you make innumerable sacrifices, and, if you’ve breastfed, wayward facing boobehs are but a symbol of those sacrifices. Like a really sad Girl Scout badge. Sure you get a lot in return, like an inexhaustible collection of crude, paper-plate artwork and an intimacy with the different grades and types of poop. But there are days when all you can do is stare down at your saggy boobs, plastered with nipples the size of saucers and wonder how your uterus could have betrayed you like this.
As I struggle, awkwardly, for one last grope I would tell Young Self not to worry, at some point everyone in her family will be as obsessed with her boobs as I am. From being integral in the creation of her two children to the nourishment of those two children, her boobs will be what make her home go round. I will warn her that much like the luxury of peeing in private or showering on a daily basis, the former glory that is now her boobs will be considered an opportunity cost for having grown and feed two tiny people. Enjoy them where they are perched, for this glory shall pass. And for heaven’s sake stop making fun of the ladies in National Geographic.
Boobehs, oh Boobehs. Wherefore art thou, fair Boobehs?