My Son Took My Bosom

I'd like to take a moment to discuss my breasts. You're probably thinking that this is a completely inappropriate topic given my recent promotion to senior pastor's wife and the fact that until two days ago I was a high school teacher and, well, quite honestly, you'd be right. But, I figure, this is the only time I can talk about my bosom. Troy's official last day at work was yesterday so I am temporarily not a pastor's wife. My official last day at work was Wednesday so I am, likewise, no longer a teacher. Thus, I can mention my chest. For today. After this blog I will go back to being a mature adult who refrains from discussing her boobs with all of the cyberworld, namely, however, my four loyal readers. Don't worry though, I'm keeping it clean for those readers who might happen to share my DNA and not, actually, want to know the the details of my mammae (FYI: I just found that word in the thesaurus and find it glorious).

Okay so. My chest. I wouldn't trade my son for the world so I would especially not trade him for a really great pair of mammae, but what, pray tell, did he do to them? This would make sense if he was the last of nine or something like that. It might make sense if he'd nursed until he was seven. But he is my firstborn and he weaned himself at ten months. Behind clothing it's impossible to tell but slap a bathing suit on me and it's fairly obvious. Stand me in front of a mirror in my birthday suit and there is positively no denying it. I've known it for awhile. I've lamented their sorry state. I've mourned their passing. But yesterday, while I sifted through old pictures, I discovered a shot taken of me on my wedding day. I'm not exactly sure who the culprit behind the camera was but she decided that all the steps of my getting dressed needed to be chronicled. So, there I stood in my crinoline and bra (completely unaware that my picture was being taken, OBVIOUSLY). And let me tell you, the grief caught me off guard. They...were...perfect. They...are...not...perfect...now.

Not that this is any of your business but they're still the same size. They just took on a completely different shape and composition. How does one baby do that, you may wonder. I have reached a conclusion. It had nothing to do with Garrett and everything to do with God. Yes. I came to this realization through scripture:

Matthew 23:12 "For whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted." You see, they used to be my favorite asset. They wore clothing well. They wore bathing suits better. I suppose I was a little prideful of them, thankful that the Lord had bestowed them upon me. I don't care for my legs. I hate my hips. I dislike my ears and my forehead. I had three bodily items that I enjoyed. My big, dark eyes (the color is fading to a dull milk chocolaty color), my abs (who knew you could lose all your baby weight and then some and still maintain an inch or two of elasticy skin?), and the aforementioned bosom. I think God used my desire for a child to alter my pride. Okay, so now we've determined that the Lord gaveth and the Lord hath taketh away but, I mean, how? Scientifically speaking, of course.

I am finished here.