My Mom's Melons

I know I should cheer for my mom. I should be the leader of the Nice Boobs! Parade. In a few days I’ll see her for the first time with a new set of melons under her usual deflated sweatshirt. I should take her hand and skip around to “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” It’s hard to say whether Cyndi Lauper has got grapefruits or plums.

Sometimes she looks lusty and busty in a vintage getup; other times she’s as flat-chested as a mechanic in a pair of coveralls. I can tell, however, which five of the eight waitresses at my favorite restaurant fill out their lacy cups better than I do. I know what character on Buffy the Vampire Slayer suddenly sprouted an impressive pair between seasons two and three. I know all my friends’ bra sizes. And I just might have uncovered the truth about how a certain girl obtained every high school boy’s dream when we were just sweet sixteen, despite her telling everyone a strict diet of American cheese and carrots induced the lucky growth.

If there can be ass and leg men, then (despite my passion for boys) I guess you might say I’m a breast girl. I fantasize about a Playboy pair of my very own and I like my porn to feature them. I usually sport a B cup, except during the fun premenstrual phase when I’m a mood-swinging mad woman with a set of Cs (well, almost). At 65, my father’s mother still has cleavage worth sneaking a peek at. My Nanny, my mom’s mom, had pleasing pillows under her housedress. My mother, on the other hand, ended up with petite but nicely shaped, perky breasts, much like mine. Until now.

We both hit big-ticket numbers this year. She turned 50. I turned 30. A few months before her birthday my mother offered up an inspiring idea. “I’m striving to be the best 50 I can be.” This meant she spent her summer off from teaching reading classics on the patio, eating more bok choy and fewer bagels, spending quality time with her other kids (two horses, one dog), and forking over $8,500 for breast implants.

As a kid I worked hard not to miss Three’s Company in its 6:00 p.m. slot every weekday. If dinner happened to be ready when it was on, I’d blast the television so I could at least hear it from the living room. I saw traces of my mom in Joyce DeWitt’s Janet Wood. Later, I grew to see myself in her character too. Small-breasted Janet was smart, sassy, raven-haired and pretty, but she often played second fiddle to the popular Chrissy. I’ve expended absurd amounts of mental energy convincing myself that Janet was just as hot, just as sexy, just as valuable as the blonde, bubbly, shapely Chrissy, because (duh) I need to believe I am too. Now my own mother wants to become a Chrissy. Betrayed! She might as well just call me up and break the news, “Yes, Mama’s so sorry sweetie, but you were right all along. We’re just not that hot.”

A few days before she arrives, we talk on the phone. Since my parents’ divorce when I was five, my mom and I have been good friends. She’d play Helen Reddy’s “You and Me Against the World” on her old record player, and we would share knowing smiles, as if it was our theme song. Now my mom is a happy Florida transplant with a new career and new life. It’s been one year since we’ve seen each other and four months since her operation. Will she be an airbrushed version of her former flat-chested self? I prod her for information about them. I mention my disgust at Hooters Air. She laughs it off nonchalantly. I wonder what new breasts do to a mom. I hate thinking we are no longer united against the world, especially the culture machine that’s constantly reminding girls they’re nothing without a nice pair.

I entertain how my life might change if I had more flesh in my bra. Would I be less disgruntled? Would I be more confident? Would Hooters Air still get on my nerves?
I meet my mom and stepdad at baggage claim. My eyes dart around trying to assess the situation, but I can’t see much through her bulky jacket. We’re so excited to see each other, we’re practically giddy. I’m overwhelmed. I’m fighting back tears, but I still can’t stop trying to catch a glimpse of my mom’s new boobs. My stepdad winks and motions over to them with his eyes. Could this be any weirder? We sneak over to an empty corner. She opens her jacket. Finally it seems safe to freely stare, so I do. I plaster on a fake smile and prepare to put on a show. Will I be able to disguise my disappointment? Even worse, what if I’m disgusted?

My mom lifts her shirt to reveal her newly large breasts in a tank top. I’m trying not to wince when tears sneak up on me and before I know it, I’m crying. I look from her perfectly formed, yet modest, C’s to her smiling face and I am so damn happy for her. I don’t have to hide anything. There’s nothing to hide. Cue the music. Where’s the hidden camera? I feel like I’m on some new reality show—Meet Your Mom’s New Rack! We hug. I notice the extra padding between us and I cry some more. I tell her she looks great and I mean it. Later, in the bathroom of their hotel room, in the presence of her naked breasts I become a blubbering idiot all over again.

I’m so relieved to find I’m happy for my mom and her big boobs. Still, I can’t help wondering if we would have discussed her decision more, or differently, if we were geographically closer. Would I have told her how being small-breasted has made me feel? Would she have told me? Despite all the blush-worthy conversations we’ve had, we somehow never stumbled on this one. Six women in my family have undergone some kind of self-improvement surgery. I color my hair, wear foundation almost every day and obsess over my bumps and curves in the mirror for much longer than I’d like to admit. But I try to be mostly natural and mostly satisfied with what I got in life’s raffle. In high school it was pretty clear my fate entailed getting by with small breasts just like my mom, but her new rack has changed that.

Now I think my destiny is in learning to truly love my boobs. I’m sure padded bras will tempt me. And even though I respect my mom’s decision and applaud the results, I know surgery is not for me. I’ll insert my own flawed body into the endless mental pageant of endowed strippers who taunt me with their soccer-ball breasts, feathered hair, and unachievable shimmer of perfection. I’ll fight the good fight. I’ll remain a Janet and proud of it, mostly.

Heather is a writer and filmmaker whose first book, Let’s Get Primitive: The Urban Girl’s Guide to Camping, was published by Ten Speed Press in May. Visit her at www.letsgetprimitive.com. 

~Heather Menicucci