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Excuse Me While I Go Milk Myself

Sat, 19 Apr 2008 03:43:56 +0000

As a responsible mommy blogger, I can no longer shy away from the subject of breasts. There, I said it. Breasts. Now that we're clear, I'll avoid this word and rely instead on innuendo and bad puns. This is a family blog, and we don't want any inappropriate Search Engine Optimization here. Prurient Googlers begone!

The need to address this topic became clear when I found a foreign object in my nursing bra. It was a pacifier. That's right, a pacifier. Somehow I didn't notice it, lodged in my cleavage, for at least an hour. Which means one of two things. Either I'm so sleep-deprived that I wouldn't have noticed a Toyota lodged there, or I've got some serious cleavage.

Let's just say my cups runneth over.

For someone who once enjoyed activities such as jogging and sleeping comfortably on her stomach, this came as a major surprise. It began during pregnancy. My friend Glenn, husband of a former A-cup girl, put it this way: "It was like, POOF! The Titty Fairy came to our house." Suddenly an entire wardrobe of perfectly conservative shirts went from "nothing to see here" to "too much information."

And that was before the milk implants.

After childbirth, an amazing anatomical shift occurs. The mass around your middle migrates north. Kind of like those squeezy dolls -- when you squeeze the stomach and the eyes bulge out.

I was astonished by the growth potential of my liquid assets, the central feature of my newly rebalanced portfolio. Their output became the new measure of my daily productivity. If milk were money, I'd be a cash cow.

The Producers are now central to every daily aspect of my new reality. They determine what I wear, what I eat, the positions in which I sleep. They tell me when it's time to feed my son or add to his cache of frozen meals. (I catch myself absentmindedly poking them in public to assess their volume, like someone patting around for her keys.) They are the clock with which I schedule errands, the metronome to which I jog.

Speaking of jogging, I discovered the newfound perils of nursing the first time I took Austin for a spin in the baby jogger. At first I thought: Hey, this could be the best of both worlds -- the convenience of the treadmill (water bottle holder, iPod nook) plus the benefits of running outdoors (fresh air, sunshine). What I did not foresee was the major discomfort gravity inflicts upon the well-endowed jogger.

The only remedy for this kinetic distress is three or four sports tops. Which, of course, I did not think to wear. Do you have any idea how hard it is to run with flexed pecs? It really messes up your stride. Imagine a running T-Rex and you'll get the picture.

I'm not sure what John Mayer was thinking about when he penned these lyrics, but his song, Gravity, became my new running anthem:

Oh gravity / is working against me / and gravity / wants to bring me down.

Oh twice as much / ain't twice as good / and can't sustain / like one-half could /

it's wanting more / it's gonna send me to my knees...

It's a nice song, really. Helps drown out the voice inside my head that goes, "Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow..."