Meditations on changes beyond my control, Part I…

… a winning submission to the 9th annual BraVa! competition.

Nearly fourteen years ago, I stood in the aisle at Target, my body working overtime to build, cell by cell, one of the most perfect human beings ever created. Those microscopic machinations were reflected by the gorgeous mounds of breast and belly (and buttocks!) that defined my corporeal topography, announcing to the world, “Baby on Board!”

My partner had wandered over to the electronics section to find a video game, no doubt planning for the hours when both baby and I would be napping, and I was still waiting for him to return to corroborate my selections of bibs (spoiler alert: he hated all bibs). After waiting a few minutes — the max of my BC, or “before child,” patience — I decided to make use of the time to look at nursing bras.

I walked past the non-pregnant bra section, my eye catching on a couple of plain white ones like those my mother’s generation wore with just a hint of lace on the straps, some racerback bras that always chafe my deltoids, and some practical front-close ones. I recognized the lightly padded ones that were my go-to, and a selection of lacy and racy numbers that no doubt led to more than a wearer or two finding themselves in my current state. Collectively they exuded a halo of furtive come-hithers, a silky feeling of trespass, a purplish sense of magical anticipation. Whether for a new workout or a new date, new bras had always meant titillating new possibilities. I smiled faintly as I recalled some of my own adventures, and what was to come. 

Not seeing the maternity bras, I rounded the corner and stopped short. In a flash, the hazy shade of desire disappeared, POOF-ed away by the fluorescent lights overhead. I stared at the small plastic hangers of plain white, black, and skin-toned cotton bras that hung in neat rows, lined up like soldiers ready to perform their mammary duty. The warm glow I felt in the previous aisle was gone. I rubbed my arms to ward off the chill.

I slowly reached for one that looked passably comfortable, a black bra with no underwire or lace. My fingers brushed against the fabric, then I grasped both ends of the band and gently tugged. It felt soft and flexible, just like the skin I was in.

I picked up the hanger and turned it around, studying it from all angles. It looked… utilitarian… not exciting in any way. "Well," I thought, "at least it will feel soft against us." I reached inside to look at the size on the tag. 34B… perfect! That's the size I usually wore…

Suddenly a slight sweat broke out on my neck and my heart began thumping wildly as my brain tried to work out what my body already knew. Then it hit me.

I WASN'T CURRENTLY THAT SIZE
and
I DIDN'T KNOW IF I WOULD EVER BE THAT SIZE AGAIN. 

I leaned forward and tried to breathe. Snatches of "what to expect when you're expecting" swam before my eyes. 

“They may get engorged when your milk comes in… get bigger to match your growing baby…

"Bras that are too tight can cause mastitis, a painful condition…"

"Your nipples may get raw and bloody. Wearing a bra could be especially painful…"

The tag blurred. Hot tears pricked my eyelids as the folly of my intent hit me. There was no way to predict how much my breasts would swell postpartum. The illusion of preparation created by baby shower registries was just smoke and mirrors — I could not buy control. The naked fact was that I was utterly unprepared for motherhood.

I stood in the aisle, bra in hand, shoulders quaking violently as I tried not to sob out loud. A shopper or two might have callously walked past, not wanting to get involved in a circular conversation with a hormonal woman. Feeling graceless and undignified, I prayed that Samir would sense a disturbance in the force and find me, but as I waited out the minutes, it became clear he had not intuited my distress. I mopped up my cheeks with a rumpled tissue and made my way to the video section. 

Of course, he was sympathetic and did his best to assuage my fears, and while I appreciated his efforts, we both knew he was serving up a diaper full of steaming and stinky crap. No one can possibly predict how their body will change, and anyone who says so is selling snake oil. Over the course of that first pregnancy and “fourth trimester,” I must have gone through at least six nursing bras — none of which fit for my second postpartum period, and which I happily passed on to other expecting parents. And while they initially caused such consternation, now I look back fondly on my memories of my HotMilk brand bras, remembering those times I was closest to my children, and proud of the work my body did to nourish my family. I’m grateful for the depth and breadth of human emotions I experienced, and I would not trade the discomfort or any of the lows. That is what makes the highs so much greater, and life so much sweeter.