The Booby Trap – Quite Literally…

This morning, as we both stood in our pants getting dressed, my 5 year old grabbed my cerise pink brassiere (an original Sainsbury’s design) and using the elastic, pinged it at my head while earnestly saying “There’s your booby trap Mummy”.  Booby Trap.  Booby Trap?  After much laughter (him because of the excellent flickage.  Me because of the confusion of phrase) I was suddenly drawn to this ‘trap’ that encased my boobs.  This evil breast holder that locked away my beautiful bosom.  This evil device that restricted my tits’ freedom.  My poor darlings…  Held captive in a booby trap.  Be Free!  BE FREE!

Mmmmmm… actually… don’t.  Let’s face it girls, you two have seen better days and while I am very grateful for all that you have done, your days of being free (while saunaing, sunbathing, attracting swingers – which their offer, may I add, we NEVER accepted) are probably in the past.  I am still completely in love with you both though – in a companionship kind of a way.  I mean, we’ve just been through so much together…

Remember the summer of 1993 when you decided to make your delayed appearance?  Leaving school at the end of the year as a girl and returning in September as a ‘b’ cup WOMAN, I was just thrilled by the commentary from my male classmates “She’s wearing a bra”, “She’s almost as big as Mandy Cartman” (the second smallest boobs in the classroom) and the inevitable “Would you screw her now?”  Ah ha…  That period of my life wasn’t embarrassing at all.  I never once cringed while listening to these pimple-faced adolescents describe me as a quasi-desirable female.

BraOr how about the University years my boobies??  Remember how I popped ‘the pill’ for half a decade and you decided to grow into a magnificent pair of rounded melons?  Beautifully pert.  A terrific cleavage-making machine.  Fabulously perfect timing as I donned low cut tops and boob tubes.  Oh how I took for granted the appreciative stares and (sometimes quite inappropriate) comments.  Oh how I now yearn for the double hoot for my hooters from passing cars.  I took you both for granted only appreciating you after you had left (at some speed) when I decided to stop the tablets.

But then, my little puppies, all was forgiven and you returned!!!  I was 29 years old.  I was pregnant.  I swore I would appreciate you this time.  I didn’t.  My tummy grew fat so you were just relative to this growing swell.  All in proportion until… I popped out the sprog and four days later my milk came in!  Woo Hoo!!!  No need to steal that 5K for a boob job anymore…  Rock.  Solid.  Breasts.  Unbelievable cleavage.  Brassiere overspill.  I remember screaming “LOOK AT THESE!!” to both male and female friends alike!!!  I didn’t care about their discomfort or any psychological damage caused.  I had been reunited with the body I was always supposed to have.  I was desirable.  Until, of course, breast feeding…

My functional mammaries… you served our little family so well.  I remember the soft hum of the breast pump, lulling me to sleep after a night of no ZZZs.  I remember being compared to an old sow by my husband as I lay sideways on the floor (exhausted) allowing my little ‘piglet’ child to snuffle and suckle at my milk.  I remember the unintentional leakage… As my little one would cry out, you (my breasts) would respond with a comforting squirt of milk before my mind had even realised that the baby was upset.  I loved the nursing bras.  The visible veins on my skin.  The ridiculously bumpy nipples.  I loved being sternly told by others to “cover up” as I became so matter-of-fact about whipping you darlings out to feed.  They were just functional boobs after all?!?  What was everyone’s problem?

But now…. it’s the present day.  I am 35 years old and my breasts’ journey has come full circle.  I am now an established mother of two young boys and boys, it seems, have the natural inclination to find a woman’s chest (and indeed anything breast-related) a source of great amusement.  They take such pleasure in prodding my pair and shouting “Boobies!!!” in between bouts of hysterical giggles.  My ‘booby trap’ bra is a great way to transport Lego.  My nudity is apparently hilarious.  I am now once again the target of male commentary.  Not that I care anymore because I now know the breast kept secret.  I am now proud of my boobs – not because of their size or shape but because of their true function.  They helped my tiny babies to grow strong.  How can I not be proud?  A woman’s body is amazing and I am a woman.

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