My nipples are, in fact, elastic. They have been tugged, bitten, stretched, smushed, and even flicked.

The top of my breasts have stretch marks. When they are filled with milk the marks are silver and white and blue. When the milk is low, they wrinkle and dip.

My breasts are never the same in size. Each day, each hour, at any given time the can be as deflated as balloons three weeks after the party. Or hard as rocks. Or both, at once.

They have been forced into hard labor. Put to work in the trenches where they meet the demand of little mouths, eager to feed. They have done their duty. They continue to serve, like good soldiers, as the youngest tugs and pulls and twists and nurses backwards. Upside down. From the side. From the top. From the bottom. On the couch. On a chair. In bed. In the car. In the mall. At the doctor’s. At Target. At the vet. In the bathroom. At a party. In the library. On a plane. On trains. In boats. In the pool. On the floor.

Purple hearts. That’s what I would give my breasts if I could. They were called to action, saved me in many a situation, did their job with pride and lactating swiftness, and never failed when the war was wearing on. And on. And on.

As you can imagine, they’ve suffered heavy damage. HEAVY damage.

And once the little one finally unlatches for the last time, I have the option to bring these warriors back to their once-glorious state.

After years of floundering on the subject, I finally think I’m at peace with my decision. Yes, they deserve to be restored. They deserve to look like they once did. They deserve their former glory.

Although I have not fully reconciled why I feel a need to restore my breasts to their pre-breastfeeding state, or exactly how I will approach the issue with my daughter and son, I know I want them back where they were. That’s all. Not bigger. Just back where they were. Even. Up.

My husband already has a plan to purchase this reconstruction. And when I mentioned the subject he laid the plan out for me, detailed and ready to implement.

Instead of getting upset he thought about it so much…I was actually flattered. When it comes to my chest he’s like any other man, but the money issue is no small feat. And he’s the tightwad in the family.

I am confident that I can give my children healthy views on their bodies, self image, and confidence without compromise concerning my fake tits. Options. Options are available to women. And this is MY choice.

Make no mistake, when I go under the knife I’m doing this for ME. ME ME ME ME. Moi. Me. Not the husband. Not society. ME.

And in the meantime, while they continue their service to the greater good…I just might go get them a new bra. And some lanolin. Maybe a hot shower. It’s nearly naptime and the baby is teething.

Back to the trenches.