Chatting with the mother-of-two-bestie about a mutual mom friend’s mystery lactation (mutual mom friend started lactating after holding someone’s newborn despite having stopped breastfeeding 18 months ago).
“Wow she’s materrrrrnal, for reals,” she said in disbelief, but then added, “There are stories of women who start lactating when they found a baby starving. May be myth but I think the body is capable.”
Of course I know with my virgin boobs, such miracle is not possible. (By virgin, I mean, never given birth.) The breasts, these breasts, these beautiful mounds of flesh, really are that–just mounds of flesh a lover may caress that otherwise get stuffed into a sports bra. I am completely oblivious to the life force transmission function that they will never likely awaken to.
My shrink once noted the issue of kids, have or have not, followed you all your life. If you got past the age of child-rearing and thought you could socialize again with those who chose a different path, think again, there was now the issue of have-and-have-not-grandkids to contend with. Separately, she mentioned women had to deal with politics of hair all her life (cut, grown, straighten, natural, dye, etc).
Boobies are on my mind because mammogram guidance age is creeping up. My mother scared me shitless of getting one after she recounted her experience when I was ten or so. Come to think of it, my niece is that age now–just the other day she demanded her mother buy her a bra for her mosquito bites because she was the only girl in her class not wearing one. Mammogram–am I really at risk if, you know, they’ve never metamorphosed? They never fulfilled their destiny, you know?