Here are a few paragraphs from the first chapter of my book...the new working totle is "yes, they are fake...the real ones tried to kill me!
Chapter One
“I must, I must, I must.”
“I must, I must, I must increase my bust!” This was the mantra of my tween years- before I knew what a mantra was, before I knew what a tween was and before I had a bust. Brought to us by the guru of coming of age, Judy Blume, this constructive chant was the secret anthem of an entire generation of pre-pubesent girls. Ms. Blume penned our inner thoughts before we knew we even had inner thoughts. Her scripture came to us in her classic novel, “Are you there God? It's me Margaret.” She made us feel universally connected to every other girl who sat in their bedrooms, incessantly repeating this chant, while doing what I later discovered were chest exercises meant to tone, lift and define the pectoral muscles. I believed I was willing my breasts to grow to a C cup, which I'd read somewhere was the size of the material girl's breasts and therefore like a prayer, the perfect size. As I soaked in the literary wisdom of Judy with Madonna's lyrics in the background, I religiously disciplined myself to do this ritual, instated by Ms.Blume, until my arms, shoulders and chest ached. I believed. (For the uninitiated reader, like my un-real Dad, Madonna is the material girl who's hit song Like a Prayer caused it's share of controversy )
Because of the free and au-natural lifestyle of the Hippie generation I discovered around age 3 that breasts and nipples come in a wide variety of sizes,shapes and colours. Later, not much later, I learnt a little more about naked breasts from my real dad's private girlie magazine collection that he strategically hid under the couch, bed, spare bed and a few other obvious spots around his place to keep them away from curious eyes. But since curiosity killed the cat, though satisfaction brought him back , and since I told myself I was operating on a strictly need to know basis for the purpose of research into my own physical growth and development, I studied them assiduously. The cat died a few times before I realized that most of those breasts on the glossy pages didn't look at all like the ones I'd seen in person. My frame of reference so far hadn't exposed breasts that resembled balloons, but rather God's creation of the lovely natural mammary container.
I am told by my mother that I quit breast feeding when I was 14 months old. Apparently I knew when I'd had enough and when she went to nurse, I simply used my assertive inside voice and said, “No.” As I pushed her away with my verbal and physical rejections manifesting themselves into one motion, my Mom was devastated. As a good Hippie Mommy, trail blazing for nursing Mother's for decades to follow, she'd been quite prepared to nourish me from her bosom until, at age three or so, I could at least verbalize my rationale for making an obviously uninformed decision in regards to my ceasing to partake in her wholesome dietary offering. She was very pleased when my two younger brothers were more than willing to still latch on well beyond the age of rational thinking. On being informed that newborn baby boys have a greater tendency to get the hang of breast feeding, I wasn't surprised.
My first understanding of lactating breasts came from the milking of our goat's teats. Her name was Togi because she was a Togenberg, a brown goat (The parents, mine not the goat's, weren't as creative with her name.) My mother built ripped forearms milking Togi everyday and every evening through out my early childhood. When Togi passed away, I experienced death for the first time. I cried. We replaced her with an Alpine, a black and white goat. She gave birth to a baby girl that became my goat Ester. Ester became my champion in 4H and she allowed me to learn how to milk on her with my own hands. I guess that was my very first breast exam. When I was 12, Ester also gave me the wonderful opportunity to deliver her twin babies all by myself. I experienced birth for the first time. She was so proud of me and so was my Mom. Ester's daughters and granddaughters provided my family with a plentiful milk supply for many years. I drank goat's milk everyday from the day I quit breast feeding until the day before I turned 19 and not because it was now legal for me to start drinking the hard stuff, but because I got on an airplane and moved down under for a year.
I remember my mother warning me at a young age that not all women developed ample bosom. Since her mother was a triple D and she a small B, she told me that anything was possible in that department.. She said her mother had led her to believe that, once she became a certain age, then surely she would develop breasts of a pleasing magnitude. On mom's 15th birthday Grandma said, “Any day now dear. ” Turning 16 she was reassured, “ Any minute now dear.” At mom's reaching 19 my Grandma was at a loss and sighed, “Dear, I do not know what happened.” So thankfully my mother cautioned and conditioned me not to expect knockers that would get noticed. But I hoped I would at least notice something.
