Boobs. Tits. Breasts. Dirty pillows. Chesticles. Mutt-n-Jeff. The Twins. Dugs. Sweater Kittens.
Yes, let’s talk about our breast friends.

If you know me professionally, I would like to warn you that you may be staring at my chest after reading this post, and that’s okay. But this may be more than you want to know about me. Please be advised, friends. 

I’m blessed with a small amount of boobage. The French- or is it the Italians? Or Spanish? are quoted as saying that more than a champagne’s glass worth of boobs is a waste, whereas Americans (I’ve heard) want breasts that are “big enough to clog a toilet.” Let that image sit with you for a while.

Once, a guy at a party asked me why I was wearing a low-cut shirt. I told him it was because I liked it. He was appalled. “But you don’t have any boobs.” Um, sir. Thank you for calling attention to my chesticles. I had no idea you’d be here tonight, otherwise I would’ve wrapped myself in a large turtleneck so as not to offend you or waste your time when you looked at my chest, only to find B cups. What a peach. And no, it wasn’t Donald Trump.

We had this teacher in high school who wouldn’t look girls in the eye- would only stare at their chests. What a creep. One day, my best friend and I decided to mess with him, so I put an orange in between my boobs and made a fake nipple out of a hank of paper towel. She asked him a question, then when he went to staring at our chests, he noticed my third boob and immediately looked at the ceiling! He never looked back down. Dude might still be staring at the ceiling to this day. Let’s hope so!

A friend of mine who is extravagantly blessed with large and healthy boobs told me “Oh, honey, you’ve got sporty little tits. You’re so lucky. You can actually wear shirts that button in the front.” So I refer to my boobs as little sports cars: speedy two-seaters that are fuel efficient and can outrun cops.  They’re cool, but I’ve always felt a little like I had to defend them to people. The amazing author Caitlyn Moran said something once to the effect of “ladies, don’t worry about your breasts. The only people who will see them are hungry babies and guys (or gals) about to get laid.” That puts things into perspective.

Anyhow, all this to say that my breasts became the “Little Titties That Could” when I had a baby. I made a TON of milk, until Lefty decided to quit (that traitor). My little boobs were able to sustain human life, and also, the aforementioned human life was a chonk, so it worked out well.  I’d like to go on record and say that breastfeeding isn’t for everyone, but I decided to try it, and it worked pretty well. But I also had a supportive workplace, tons of help and coaching and a free breast-pump, so I was really lucky. This post is essentially a shout out to all the hardworking boobies out there whether or not they’re making milk. Don’t let anybody tell you anything about what you do or don’t have, because breasts are magical. So hug those sweater kittens tonight, and tell them how much you love them.