BOOBS- A tribute to a job well done.

I awoke smelling like cooked cabbage. I hate cabbage. I’ve been fasting cabbage all my life, and have seen tremendous breakthrough spiritually from remaining as far from it as I can get. If I am in a room where cabbage is cooking I leave so I won’t sin, or blow chunks. You get the point. So having to put cabbage in my bra to dry up my ENDLESS milk supply is revolting on so many levels. One being, it’s cabbage. 

I got out of bed, and as my feet hit the floor…. BOOM so did my boobs. The whole house shook as momma journeyed to the kitchen to medicate the heck out of her engorged milkies. As I passed by my outspoken, lovely daughter she says:

” Gosh MOM your boobs are HUGE!”

contrary to her regular statement, which is :

” When I grow up I will have a tiny tiny bra just like Mommy!”

Take that kid.

See? I would fit right in. That's a wine glass. And a baby that needs nourishment.
See? I would fit right in. That’s a wine glass. And a baby that needs nourishment.

It was time to unveil the botched up things, so I went to the bathroom alone and shut the door. No one warns you that when you wean a child that you have been nursing for two solid years you will endure a pain equivalent to child birth. At baby showers we should all be handed the following:

The tightest sports bra known to man. Or woman. One that is 3 sizes too small/ Trust me.

Peppermint oil


Wine / trust me


To my surprise I looked like I had just come out of plastic surgery. I had tripled in size , and just as I was admiring my completion in the mirror, half pleased half horrified at the pain… the husband walks in.

” WHAT in the world?! “

” Don’t get too excited they will not remain this great. It’s only a matter of time before they deflate. Actually will you lay hands on them and ask the Lord to deflate them?”

” No.”

” Go to work then.”

” Ok but please send me a picture. “

I then had a tribute to them. RIP Dolly Parton boobs, that required no surgery. If only you could stay. Maybe I wouldn’t be asked if I was old enough to get a VIC card, and maybe people would believe I have three children. They may also believe things about me that wouldn’t be too great.

Like that maybe I got a boob job to get a modeling gig. Or worse. Work at Hooters. I couldn’t work at Hooters. I can’t be seductive enough , when my husband asks me to give him a sexy look I look more like I am constipated than sexy. I can’t flirt either. I haven’t had to flirt in 11 years. What does one do to flirt these days? I’m sure it would require a nice set of breasts like I have today, but alas tomorrow they will be as far as the east is from the west. Gone with the Wind. Never to return. As deep as the sea. Like buried treasure. Like pacifiers lost in the sofa. Like straightened hair on a rainy day.

Like warmed over coffee.

I have to go now and take more pain relievers. If there is some kind of street drug that I could take to dry up all this milk, you can respond via email. I will pay whatever you want. I just don’t do back alleys. We can meet at Target, Target is like church.

There is a case in which, maybe my milk will never dry up. In which case my mission in life could be to feed all the African children. Europe. Asia. All those other places I don’t know where they are on a map. Since Hooters is out of the question, I may as well sign myself up for missionary work. It cant be with a super religious organization, as they would think I was working at Hooters, then came to Jesus.

No it has to be with a church with a bunch of crunchy people. Granola moms. My large breasts would fit right in as they feed their 7 year old and 3 year old at the same time. Heck maybe, I could feed one of her 13 kids too. Listen , I don’t vaccinate either. We could get along. But I DO wash my hair.

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