My husband’s family was horrified when I decided to
breastfeed our first baby. They insisted I remove myself from the public rooms,
retreat to a bedroom, cover myself with a blanket, and nurse my baby in shame
and private.
Which was rich coming from a family that regularly
discussed—at the dinner table—the various uses of whipped cream in dating
situations. Boobs covered in whipped cream, complete with a cherry on top, was
considered wildly humorous. Breastfeeding was considered . . . well . . . icky.
It was confusing at best.
When I had our second baby, I said, “Nope. Not going to the
bedroom of breastfeeding shame. If you want I’ll cover the baby’s head with
whipped cream and call myself dessert. But that’s it. Now back down.”
They backed down.
Over the years I’ve tried to figure out the mixed messages
that society expresses when it comes to female breasts. Sorry, I got nothing. Society is nuts.
However, here are a couple of random observations on the
subject:
God gave women boobs and then said, “When you can get a guy
to look you in the eye, even if it’s for thirty seconds, marry him.” NOTE: It’s still good advice.
National Geographic magazine did more for modern underwear
makers, than any advertising agency on Madison Avenue ever thought of—ever.
Women in the 1970’s burned their bras to protest the
repressive 1950’s when Madison Avenue had decided women’s breasts should be
shaped like nuclear missile silos.
Then something called “Cooper’s Droop” was discovered. Women
put their bras back on in the 1980’s and invented Victoria’s Secret.
The secret was that Victoria was a hooker.
Breastfeeding threats are the best threats on earth to
control older children. When my kids gave me a hard time about pulling the plug
on leaving the park, the swimming pool, or the Little League Field, I would
simply shout, “Come get in this van in three minutes, or I will tell everyone
at this park/pool/field that I breastfed you and for how long.” Enough said.
When I got married I was still wearing a training bra. No joke. It was true love on my
husband’s part.
Once you get them trained, they’re kind of fun, because
being a girl is fun.
Nothing has changed. GQ magazine this month, a men’s
magazine for men, has a picture of a topless girl wearing a flower lei over her
boobs—sort of. Men are dopey.
Feminists would have us believe that there is no biological
difference between boys and girls. No seriously, I had a college professor tell
me that. “If girls were treated like boys they’d be big and strong too.” I
noticed that Dr. Kooper was wearing a bra, and I was pretty sure I could take
her in an arm wrestling contest.
Boys of all ages find girl stuff fascinating or as my
grandson Conner asked me one fine day, “YaYa, why you got so many booby bras?”
Or as my daughter (mother of four boys and one future bra wearer) said, “Oh no,
I don’t go anywhere near the underwear aisle of the store, or all four of them
will run through the bra section, fondling the merchandise, yelling, ‘Booby
bras, booby bras,’ at the top of their lungs.”
Therefore we can conclude, who the heck knows? But as a
friend of mine remarked, “Burn my
bra? Bras are expensive.” I know,
right?
Linda (Hang Ten) Zern
