The bra completes the woman

It took longer to wean myself off of those nursing bras--those supportive, stretchy, soft, hideous bras--than it did to wean my son off of the boob.

Actually, weaning Toddler in Chief was easy. Weaning myself off those bras was much, much harder.

At first, I tried to just ignore them in the top drawer of my dresser. I couldn’t bring myself to pack them away with all of the other maternity clothing that I accumulated during my pregnancy. They were a crutch. But instead of helping me through a transition, they prevented me growing into the next phase of parenthood. I was in limboland. I wasn’t pregnant. I wasn’t the mother of a newborn. I wasn’t even the mother of a nursing baby. My kiddo had graduated to a new level of independence, and I was hanging onto to something that had slipped away.

Every morning when I’d get dressed, I would see them and they would silently taunt me: “You know you want us!” they’d be saying as I’d slip into those tiny pre-pregnancy bras. But there was no support! There was no comfort! Wires poked me in all the wrong places!

Reluctantly, I’d stuff myself into the pre-pregnancy bras. So even though I’d start the day without those nursing bras, an hour later I’d be back in the closet, giving in to my post-nursing breasts’ needs. No one knew I was still wearing these things. But occasionally, a low-cut top would reveal those center snaps. And then the inevitable comment would follow: “Are you still wearing nursing bras??!!” And I’d follow up with some excuse: “Oh, all my regular bras were in the wash (cough, cough). This was all I had.”

It had been six months since I stopped breastfeeding and I hadn’t made any progress to wean myself into regular bras. I knew I had to do something drastic or I’d eventually end up still wearing them six years from now, in the stands of TIC’s little league games. Those bras owned me. They had me in the closet, physically and mentally.

But what really got me motivated was when I was trying on some shirts while Therapist Friend sat with me in the dressing room. “Oh hon-eey,” she said with a portion of pity in her voice. “You’ve got to get rid of those things.”

That was it. And I knew the only way I was going to break out of this habit was to go cold turkey. So I emptied the top drawer of bras—all bras. The pre-pregnancy ones didn’t fit and the nursing bras had to go. I was completely braless. I wasn’t the same person I was before I was pregnant, so I’m not sure why I’d expect to fit into the same old bras. The only way to escape this saggy situation was to buy new bras. It was going to be an expensive outing, but it had to happen.

One hundred and fifty dollars later, I’m the proud owner of several lacy, pink, frilly, sexy garments that no one sees but me. I am a woman again. These seemingly insignificant garments have changed me. I stand taller, feel more confident, think dirty thoughts. It’s wonderful to be me again...A new and improved parental me.