And Now, A Word About My Breasts

It’s embarrassing to write about your boobs. It’s even more embarrassing to have a sports bra that looks like a girdle. But the fact is, other people are staring at them, and commenting on them, and have been, since I was one of the first girls to develop, back in sixth grade –- so after a while, I might as well be the one telling the story.


I am walking home from daycare with my daughter and I am wondering, "What's that feeling?" "... that intense pounding, that rush, that I'm feeling in my chest, in my bloodstream?" "Oh," I realize. "That's love." It is so intense, this feeling, that sometimes I can't contain it. Sometimes I think it will rush out of me like teenagers at a party when the police show up -- and it can feel just as awkward as this, as gangly and pimply and dumb and joyous, high on wine coolers and being felt up, as out of control, as unprepared, as fresh and urgent and important and confusing and intense.


People have been asking me to start blogging again, and I'm flattered... but what do you blog about after giving birth? The way my skin stretched in ways I thought it never could, and out she came? (Sorry if that grosses you out.) The way my heart has stretched in ways I never thought it could? Doing flip-flops and bungee jumps, stretching wide... wider...