I have never much been ashamed of breasts. I come from a long line of well endowed women, so I have been comfortable with the idea of cleavage for as long as I can remember. Breast were normal.
In my final year of primary school I had the largest breasts in class. By far. I found them awkward, over sized and embarrassing. I didn’t know quite what to do with them, and felt uncomfortable in my bras. Breasts were mortifying.
In my teenage years I was known for my outrageously plunging necklines and I quite liked provoking reactions from boys my age, and relished the opportunity to lecture them on their sexist behavior should they look for too long or make a comment. Then, breasts were powerful.
When I settled into my relationship and began rediscovering sex as tender and romantic, my breasts had yet another role. They became lovely, sensitive, adored and an important part of our sex life. My breasts became feminine.
A few years later I fell pregnant. Other than the constant vomiting, one of my first signs of pregnancy was breasts so tender even my bra hurt. Throughout the pregnancy they grew and changed in shape, colour and even function. Before too long my breasts had become mammary glands.
When the beautiful baby boy finally arrived he almost instantly began rooting for a nipple. He came close to finding his father’s before he was placed in my arms. I was flabbergasted at the force with which he began to suckle and bemused by the process of organising the breast and baby correctly (yes there is such a thing, and it is tricky to achieve in the beginning). My breasts became a learning experience.
Five weeks later on my second trip to the early childcare nurse with my happy and settled newborn I was faced with a different prospect. “It isn’t a personal failing dear” she said, “it is just that god didn’t give you enough milk.” With instructions to buy formula as soon as possible, my breasts became a failure.
It turns out the nurse was wrong. My breasts became their ultimate purpose, nurturers.
18 months later my toddler still feeds a few times a day. Now he feeds for his immune system, to top up his nutrients, for comfort, for bonding and to soothe the busy toddler to sleep. Like the proverbial Swiss Army knife, the one tool has millions of uses. My breasts became utilitarian.
I would like to point out that as varied as my experience of my breasts has been my breasts have never been any of the following: lewd, inappropriate, dirty, obscene, pornographic, offensive, a problem or anybody else’s business.
I think it is time we reclaimed our breasts. Inherent to our femininity, as they are, they should be revered and respected. A woman accentuating the feminine curves of her body or feeding her child is as natural and normal as can be. If you disagree then the problem resides with YOU not breasts or the woman they belong to.
