We were in CA. at the 4 Seasons in Carlsbad. We were on the 2nd floor. I was in a hurry. I was holding Hope on my right hip, carrying a Coke in my left hand, and carrying a bag over my left shoulder. I was wearing cute flip-flops, the kind with the super-duper cute bow. They were rubber and they lacked tread. They were not safe. I was hustling down the steps. I was trying to carry too much. I was in too much of a hurry. I was annoyed about something. I fell. I slipped at the top of the landing & I came crashing down. By the grace of God, an angel set Hope in the corner of the top of the first step in a little crevice that she fit in ever-so-perfectly. I fell on my shoulder-blade, all the way down about 10 concrete steps and I screamed loudly. I heard my MIL dialing 911. I heard B running towards me in his flip-flops. I heard Hope screaming bloody murder.
I broke my right scapula because I was saving Hope from flying over the edge of the 2nd floor steps. I had a huge huge huge bruise & hematoma on my bottom. Through my tears, I told Brian to check Hope, to check for dilation of her eyes, to check for bruises, & to check for blood. & I remember believing more than ever in God and angels and the goodness of the world because what could have happened is not something I can even begin to wrap my mind around. Hope did not have a single scratch on her. The fire department came and they, too, checked for pupil dilation, bruises, and blood. They found nothing, not a single scratch. Thank God, praise God.
They scooped me up via stretcher and took me out to the parking lot and asked if I preferred they take me to the ER or Brian. I told them I wanted Brian to because I had already caused a freaking embarassing scene. The second I got in the car, I bawled my eyes out. I was in horrific pain. We got to the ER and they mentioned a broken scapula and put my right arm in a sling. Breast feeding with a broken scapula was challenging, but I kept at it. Breastfeeding is a gift and an honor and a privilege. It’s not to be taken for granted and not everyone has the opportunity to do so. So, I fed on.
My scapula healed and you would never ever know I broke it. & the bruising healed completely and my hematoma healed, too, but not all the way. You see, there is a dent there. It is a reminder of my fall. Not very many people know and when I bring it up, they think it’s silly that I care about it at all, but if I wear a tight-fitting maxi dress, you can see it. & if I wear a light-colored bathing suit, you can see it. & every single time I get in the shower and out of the shower, it glares at me in the mirror. I don’t like it and have contemplated getting it taken care of. I would have to go to a plastic surgeon to get it smoothed over.
One time, I was getting out of the shower and Brian asked me what it was. I looked at him and reminded him of my fall. He was just curious, but drawing attention to it always brings me down a little bit. It sort a haunts me. When I mentioned to Brian my desire to get my dent smoothed out via plastic surgery, he said:
That dent is a reminder of the time that you protected our child from serious injury. Great mama bear instincts.
& then I cried and realized that I had saved Hope, from help above, from getting seriously hurt. & I remember being blamed and questioned as to to why I had on those unsafe shoes, why I was in such a freaking hurry, why I was carrying so many things at once, and why I felt I needed to move so quickly. Some people do not believe in accidents or mistakes. I believe in accidents and mistakes. I’m thankful Brian believes in accidents and mistakes, too.
I started bawling at dinner last night. It came out of nowhere. Brian had been going on and on about how excited he was about his workout regimen and how great he’s been feeling about not eating cookies after 8 p.m. and trying to incorporate more veggies in his diet. I looked at him and I felt jealous. Jealous at the ease of him working out every singe day at 5 a.m.- no excuses and never ever missing a single fucking day, while I’m at home getting our kids prepared for the day.
& his body, let’s talk about his physique for a moment, shall we? He has weighed the same since high school, give or take one or two pounds. He’s strong and buff and has biceps and abs and shoulder muscles. His legs are rock solid. & as the days pass, he gets stronger and more buff. & even though he’s not eating cookies after 8 p.m. & eating healthier, he could eat several cookies after 8 p.m. and not gain a single pound. & if he wanted to, he could stuff a few cheeseburgers in his mouth and the scale would not change. & it fucking pisses me off. I look at a donut and gain weight. I drink a Moscow mule and I tip the scale.
As he gets older, he gets cuter. He doesn’t age and his body remains the same. I’m jealous. Once upon a time, I had a flat-ish tummy and perky double D boobs. & when I was pregnant with Hope, I gained 50 pounds. 50 beautiful pounds of perfect baby and I’m ever so grateful for every single pound because those pounds allowed me to healthily house & grow a baby that could not be more perfect. Thanks be to God. My body is miraculous, as it has healthily housed and grown, cell by cell, 2 delicious human beings. & then, my once perfect breasts fed each of our babies for 2 years a piece. & after I breastfed both Hope and James for 2 years each, I’m left with tube sock breasts with cue balls at the ends. One is bigger than the other and they truly lack volume. When I shave my legs, I have to look away from them because they have become floppy. I’m super-duper grateful that my breasts provided nourishment for 4 years for Hope James. Let’s see, that’s 4 years of breast-feeding. I’m super duper blessed that my body was able to produce milk to provide my babies with food for free, but it certainly came with a cost for me.
Brian does not understand because his body remains the same. He also didn’t carry two babies, gain weight, and breastfeed. How could I expect him to understand?
My boobs are not once what they were. They used to be perky and they used to be the same size and they used to look better with my tops. I miss my old boobs, the ones that I probably took for granted and didn’t praise and hug enough, the ones that looked super nice in a bathing suit and tube tops and cute topless dresses. They are not what they once were and neither am I. The truth is, when you become a mom, you change greatly: mentally, physically, psychologically, physiologically, spiritually, emotionally, and more. & when you have another baby, the process starts all over again.
Brian stays the same & my body becomes more gravity ridden. I want my once perfect boobs back. & I don’t think it’s fair that when Brian became a dad, his body remained the exact same. & now, post 2 kids, he’s even cuter than before, and it pisses me off. I’m the one that carried our babies for 18 months, gained 100 pounds (50 pounds with each), & breastfed them for 4 years. I become softer and more saggy and my husband becomes buffer, stronger, cuter, & ages not a single day. Fucking awesome.
& aren’t I so blessed to have been able to have two children with ease when so many beautiful people in my world, for whatever reason, were not able to have children without trying so damn hard all the time and going through the ups and downs and disappointments of once again, not conceiving. I am grateful. I am blessed. Not everyone can have a baby. My dear friend went through IVF treatments for years before she had her Tomas. My other friend suffered from multiple miscarriages over and over and over again until her best friend offered to be a surrogate. I am forever grateful that I was blessed and gifted and chosen to be Hope and James’ mom, but I still want what I once had, breast wise.
So, I’m implant shopping. Nope, I don’t want anything bigger than what I once had before. I just want back what I lost. I want to feel better when I look in the mirror. Nothing over the top, just 2 same sized implants that gravity hasn’t completely taken over. It’s not about being vain, either. I want my clothes to fit better, I want to hold my head a little bit taller, and I want to rock my bathing suit with a little more confidence.
God works in mysterious ways. I ran into a friend. She mentioned her mom just got diagnosed with breast cancer at 80 years of age, the day before yesterday. Her mom has decided she is going to get her breasts cut off and get implants. My sister-in-law also lost both her breasts a couple of years ago due to cancer and had to get implants. It was a long and difficult and tremulous battle. My mom is a breast cancer survivor. My uncle died of lung cancer. It runs in my family. Losing breasts due to cancer can’t be easy. Maybe I should stop hating the saggy breasts I have and be thankful for them, as they are alive and well and cancer-free. I don’t believe in accidents. I think things happen for a reason. God smacks us in the face with a little perspective and humbles us with His lessons and His grace.
We’re blessed beyond measure. The moment we complain about the way something looks, we should think about what it would be like to not have that body part AT ALL due to cancer. So, I’m thankful for my saggy boobs that are uneven and differ in size. Without this imperfect body of mine, I would not have been able to have 2 irreplaceable and beautiful children. So, I’m thankful for this body of mine. I am imperfect and I am blessed, infinitely.
May you also be grateful for the body you’ve been ever so blessed with, for it is a living & walking miracle.