A Love Poem To My Post-Breastfeeding Boobs

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Recently, as I watched my hour-long bliss of Game of Thrones on a Sunday night, I realized that I have become one of those “judge-y” moms. I find that every time a topless woman comes across the screen, I need to point out to my husband that she “definitely never breastfed” with nipples that look like that. Oh, who have I become? I think I am still coming to terms with how fast my boobs went from A’s … to Double D porn stars (whoa, that was unexpected and AWESOME) … to … hmm, I’m not sure what size they actually are or what they resemble. So, in hopes of accepting them, I have created an ode to help me appreciate these new creatures. My Google search defined an “ode” as a poem about one specific thing that you find amazing. So here we go:

Oh breasts, where art thou? I no longer feel like a cow.

You did your work — good job, well done, The double D’s were a lot of fun.

You sustained life with no fear, I’m basically mommy of the year.

My husband and baby no longer look at you in awe, But thankfully my nipples are no longer raw.

Sadly, you have started to change, And disfigure into something quite strange.

We will never look 21 again, But I suppose that former life wasn’t all zen.

Flattened milk jugs, tennis balls, and shriveled grapes, I definitely won’t be cast in any sex tapes.

Each bra I wear gives me no help, With nip slips worse than Madonna herself.

‘Perky’ is no longer in my vocabulary book, Yet another thing that good ole’ breastfeeding took.

I fear a plastic surgeon is in my future, With boobs not being the only fixed feature.

Pancakes, hanging skin, It really is such a sin.

Why do they even call you ‘boobs’ post nursing? I vote ‘flappity flaps,’ it has a better ring.

You’re here to stay, There’s not much else to say.

It’s time to be real; out with the old, in with the new, And appreciate, instead of looking so blue.

You really did a great job this past year, So pat on the back, thank god I can finally have a beer.

Moral of the ode: Take pride in the shriveled pancakes, mama. They are living proof of your selflessness and how amazing you really are. Kind of like trophies. And next time a topless woman waltzes across your screen? Tip back that glass of wine, nod and salute them as a distant memory of what used to be.

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