I Just "Sexted" My Mom

Oh, yes, I did.

I sent my first "sext" (a sexually-explicit text message).  To my mom.

You, see, since I have been winding down breastfeeding Brooke, I have begun to notice some frightening changes to my breasts.  Namely, one is about two cup sizes larger than the other one (at all times, with no regard to engorgement!). 

I realize that it is totally normal for one breast to be larger than the other.  This is a different animal--a significant difference.  I'm going to go so far as to call it a freakish difference.

Since Brooke was born...one year and 3 days ago...I have been living pretty much constantly in my 2 sports bras and 3 nursing tanktops with built-in bras--brown, black, and grey.  The girls have been supported, but in a very utilitarian and most un-glamorous fashion.  (They are workin' boobs now, after all.)

Well, upon Brooke's first birthday, I thought it was high time to return to normal bra usage, as in my pre-pregnancy bras.  These are 34B, which is, I assume, a glorified A.

Sidenote: While I was pregnant, I was a 34DD, which was AWESOME!  I guess I can kiss those bras goodbye...(along with their accompanying Pam Anderson-esque filling).

Anyway, I put on one of my pre-p bras yesterday, and became even more aware of my ghastly unevenness.  My "B" cup bra is waaay too roomy for breast #1, but waaay too small for breast #2.  Serious problems unsued, as I'm sure you can imagine.

As breast #2 spilled over the cup, it pulled the whole bra its direction.  Poor breast #1 was unable to keep the underwire under, so it got mangled and smashed in the process.  The cup for breast #1 ended up mostly above the scoop of my shirt (ie., visible to the world).  Breast #1 didn't stand a chance against breast #2, which has a significant weight advantage...and the bra was completely useless to keep the girls under control and, more importantly, under the cover of my clothing!!

I did what any girl who loves her mama would do in this situation:  I texted her a picture of my lopsided chest wrestling with the useless, ineffectual 2-cups-the-same-size bra!

Milkaholic (Warning: This Post Contains the Word "Breast")

As we approach Brooke’s first birthday, we are all thinking a lot about breastmilk.  (Not what you were expecting, right?)  Brooke is hard-core addicted.  While none of us (other than Brooke) want to be the family where the 5-year-old is still breastfeeding, none of us can imagine life without milkie either.  Just now, Brooke was in the midst of an all out milk-skitz spazz attack.  She was literally moaning and rolling around on the floor.  Withdrawal.  Time for her fix.

As the rest of the family enjoyed some delicious gelattis from Rita’s, Brooke was nursing.  When she was finished, she laid on her back, lolled her head, and looked at the rest of us upside down with a milk mustache on her grin.  She did her little lizard-tongue lip lick move.  Then, she happily spit-up, and it ran directly into her eye.  She (and we) thought it was disguting and hysterical.  

“She is weird when she comes off the milk.”  Alyssa noticed.

“Yeah, after milk is my favorite time.  She is so wacky.  It’s like she’s drunk.”  Greg agreed.

Breastmilk puts Brooke into a blissful stupor, which we have all grown to love—and count on in moments of need.  We totally enable her habit.  As we approach the 12-month mark, however, it is hard to forget that this warm, sweet, delicious, boozy indulgence should be winding down.  Brooke should be weaning.  It is very clear, though, that this will not happen without a fight.

Since she has been born, Brooke has continued to wake up 3 to 4 times a night for some milkie and a snuggle.  She chooses not to suck her thumb or a pacifier.  Why should she, after all, when she has the real thing at her disposal 24/7?  So, instead of soothing herself, she nurses.  Exhausted from so many weeks and months of interrupted sleep, and unwilling to give up sleeping time to let her cry it out, I had been indulging her vice.  Like any enabler, I rationalized:  After all, she is my last baby.  And she is growing up too fast.  And she is a tiny, little peanut.  I wanted to nurture her.

Until the night of March 22.  Brooke had woken up every two hours since I put her down.  I had had enough.  It was high time for an intervention.  She went to her crib, and I was convinced that she would do hard time there until 6AM.  No exceptions.  She cried most of the night.  Greg and I wore pillows on our heads.  When 6AM came, I rescued Brooke from her crib prison, and snuggled her into my engorged breast.  She nursed intensely and then totally passed out.  Her sweaty, limp, seemingly lifeless body dangled from my cradling arms.  She whimpered happily and then slept deeply, lying on her back with her arms spread eagle.

Last night, I decided to continue the trend toward drying Brooke out…at least at night.  After a last chance nursing at 9PM, I laid her with her blankey in her detox chamber.  I was determined not to nurse her until at least 5AM.  She woke up several times throughout the night, but only for a few minutes at a time.  I woke up without a pillow on my head, if that gives you any indication of how well the night went.  At 5:20AM, I nursed Brooke, and she fell into her blackout slumber.  Interestingly, so did I.  After nursing, I dreamed so vividly that Alyssa ringing the doorbell at 6:30AM became part of my dream, and she had to ring again.  I was dreaming about a church where we fed the hungry.  Coincidence?  I think not.  It was the first time I remembered a dream since Brooke has been born, and it coincided directly with my first 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Anyway, I have just put little Lindsay Lohan, I mean Brooke, down for her third night of mama-imposed milkie rehab.  I feel that breaking her milk addiction overnight is the first step in a long journey of weaning—for both of us.

P.S.  It is the next day, and I am happy to report that the little milkaholic went another full eight night-time hours before falling off the wagon again...  :-)