Oh, dear bras.
I miss you so.
I never really appreciated you when I had you.
You were so supportive, silently holding me together (but separated), lifting me up, and you always had my back. And a bunch of other clichés that are appropriate for both friends and bras.
Nursing bras just don’t do it for me.
They’re too small, they’re thick with padding yet saggy at the same time. If they don’t have an underwire they’re too lumpy and dumpy. If they do have an underwire it’s too narrow and pinches. They’re ugly and uncomfortable.They aren’t the right size and the right size must be ordered online, without getting to try them on first!
And why is it, when many women experience fuller breasts when nursing, that you can’t find a nursing bra bigger than a C in stores? What if I was bigger than a C to begin with? I’m not like Dolly, but they’re large.
Like this. Beautiful nursing bra, it actually looks a lot like my old bras. It’s a little pricey (around $60 Euro) but very high quality. Problem: Does not come in my size. Does not even come in my pre-preg size. photo from mamanana.com
I don’t even know if I’m in a different size now, although I know I was just after the Pie was born. Like I couldn’t button my shirts kind of different size. Like the nursing flaps flapped in the wind kind of different size. My “favorite” nursing bras is a schlumpy uni-boob shelf bra I got at Target as an emergency bra when I was so engorged that not only could I not close the flap on the bras I had, but it was actually painful to put them on. It’s a nighttime nursing bra. Lame.
I was putting away laundry (miracle!) the other day and I saw you, old bras, hovering in the back corner of the drawer. I took you out, looked at you, touched the stiff lacy fabric and the clasp-less straps.
I put you back, dear old bra.
No use for you now.
I have those OTHER bras now.
And it’s not that I’m trying to be sexy.That’s a whole other post. (Yes, it’s coming. RELAX.) I don’t need a pretty bra. I just want one that fits and is functional and doesn’t look like I should be walking around a trailer park wearing nothing but it and a pair of torn up jeans shorts with a baby on my hip and a beer in my hand.
I may have to put you in a box, old bras. Visiting is too painful. I don’t know if I could handle seeing you again.
I’ll return, someday. I can only hope that you will be there, in the box you’ll surely end up in, collecting dust in the closet, waiting for me.