Last night my 2-year-old reached over, poked my breast and said "Bo bo's booboob." I turned to him and said "before those were Beau's, those were daddy's, and before that, they were mine." Just to clarify for those of you who are freaked out thinking that I've run off with a clown named Bo Bo, you should know that my son calls his new little brother Bo Bo--short for Beaumont.

Back to the subject of my breasts because we all know that's why you're really reading this post. I would like you all to know that long before I was a milk cow, long before any man could call these things his "fun bags," they belonged to me. They were nice and firm and perky...and then I had babies. Everyone tells you about the joys of breastfeeding: the closeness you feel to your infant, the essential nutrients and antibodies that you are passing to your newborn, the money you are saving, yadayadayada. La Leche League will probably kill me for this one, but I don't think that they post the downfalls to breastfeeding in any of their fancy pamphlets, so here are the things they won't tell you about breast feeding.

Number 1

Your breasts have two settings: Porn star and deflated balloon. Sure they look awesome when they're all full and perky--but when they get to that point, all you can think of is where's the kid, where's the kid, where's the kid? When you finally relieve some of the pressure, it's like someone just let the air out of your tires. They hang like two sad little balloons that have been long forgotten days after someone's birthday party. Which leads me to point number two--

Number 2

You should see these things when they're unbridled and set free; they sag so low they could permanently settle with your belly button--that is if the skin from your stretch-marked stomach wasn't currently residing around your knees. On the plus side, you can officially join the mom club--you know the one in which the bottom of your breasts and the top of your pants meet at your waist to discuss politics.

Number 3

The sweat, oh the sweat. Who knew that you could have permanent swoob (sweaty boob)? I mean it is the Sahara desert inside of my bra. You would think that with all of the sweating, when the watermelons met, they would slide right off of each other. Wrong. All of that sweating means they stick together and then...bring on the chaffing. It's like the inside of a fat girl's thighs inside my bra (I know this because I've been the fat girl with the thigh chaffing so I have earned the right to poke fun). Try having a normal conversation when all you can think about is how fast you can sneak off to the bathroom, seperate the sisters and blow some cool air down your shirt.

Number 4

You are a cow. There is no denying it, no hiding from it. You are a human milk machine. Now imagine that you are pumping as well as breast feeding. You've become a special about farming on the Discovery Channel. You are herded into a stall, hooked up to a large machine that extracts your milk and then you're put back out to pasture for the next three hours until you've produced more milk. Your milk is then bottled, bagged, and sent to a freezer facility where it will be saved for a rainy day when you decide it's finally safe enough to venture away from your pasture and take a break from your calfling.

So...there you have it. Good luck with your breasts, boobies, tatas, funbags, or whatever else you choose to call them.