Everything I Needed to Know About Being a Girl I Learned from Judy Blume (23 page)

While in Miami, I met someone else, fell in love, and had a baby a couple of years later. Throughout the pregnancy, my breasts looked magnificent. And when I gave birth, I actually dropped fifteen pounds but
still had the breasts.
This was the Holy Grail of body image—slim hips and big boobs.

And then I started to nurse. And nurse.

So here I am, yet again staring in the mirror, looking at my naked breasts.

I'm not so happy now.

When I'd gained some weight and a cup size, my mother accurately said, “I bet you don't want to lose the weight because you finally have bigger breasts.” Wow, I'm not sure I'd even admitted that to myself when my mother said that to me, and I could only give her a sheepish smile. I didn't even know she realized that I wanted bigger breasts (but she obviously saw me wearing all those push-up bras and put two and two together). Now, nursing and in full-on “mother mode” in baggy sweats and a T-shirt without a bra, my mother said, “Your nipples used to be so much higher.”

And just like that, I realized that I had boob drama again.

How had this happened? Don't we go through enough distress over our breasts as adolescents, then as teens, and as women in our twenties? Do we really have to go through it
again
?

I had attained perfection, only to lose it. Sure, my breasts were still large and looked great in a bra. In fact, now they were closer to D's than C's.

And yet I was miserable.

I couldn't stop looking in the mirror, lifting my breasts to see where the nipples
should
be.

I wasn't prepared for this—the reality that my breasts would
start to sag.

Now, I love my little girl to death and wouldn't trade her for anything, but I can't help thinking about the injustice of having to lose perfect breasts because you didn't opt to bottle-feed.

Dear God, when will all this breast drama end?

Or will it?

It seems the whole world is obsessed with breast size. Women on Dr. Phil complaining that they have sagging skin instead of breasts after losing weight or that their babies sucked them right back down to prepubescent boobs. You only have to watch one episode of your favorite TV show to see that breasts are so important to women. Many have opted for faking it. And not just with push-up bras but with permanent synthetic materials. Alas, it seems that breasts are now more important than they ever were.

And mine—well, it seems my glory days are behind me.

Okay, so they're not the worst ones out there. They're still full. They still look great in a bra. But thanks to my mother, I'm aware that they don't look as hot naked as they used to.

Now in my mid-thirties, it's clear to me that the more things change, the more they stay the same. No matter how old we get, how accomplished, women will always have issues with their breasts.

I can imagine Margaret now, in her mid-thirties, still talking to God.

Are you there God? It's me, Margaret.

Please tell me this breast thing is a joke. A cruel prank, God. Tell me I'm going to wake up and see that this is all a nightmare.

I mean really, God. I finally got great breasts at fourteen, and I looked fabulous in college. My breasts got me lots of boyfriends—well, at least lots of offers. I was hot. And I felt great. I snagged the man of my dreams, got married, and then settled down to have a family.

I give of myself every day, God. I try to be the best mother I can be. I cook and clean and take care of my husband. I even have a fabulous career. I can't deny I'm living the American Dream.

So why is it that now, when everything is right in my world, I have another body image crisis to deal with at the age of thirty-four?

I nursed two babies back-to-back, and I've learned what nursing does to a woman's breasts. I did what was best for my babies—I didn't want to deprive them of the benefit of mother's milk. But now I no longer have the beautiful C-cup breasts I used to have. My breasts, God, are sagging.

Dear God, I have
droopy breasts.

My parents still don't know I talk to you, and neither does my husband. But God, I'm wondering if you could please restore my breasts for me. They don't have to be C's again. I'd be happy with a B cup. I just don't want them to sag.

And while I'm on a roll here, God—what about this pouch around my belly? Is it possible to lose that pregnancy pouch with excessive working out? I don't think so, because I've been trying. You know how hard.

I've been good, God. And I swear I'll stop eating chocolate. Maybe I'll even enroll my kids in Sunday school. Whatever it takes, God. I'm only thirty-four. If my breasts are sagging now, I don't want to imagine what they'll be like when I'm fifty-four.

Or seventy-four.

And when Margaret ends her prayer, she is haunted by the vision of what her breasts could look like when she's seventy-four.

Sagging so far south, her nipples can touch her knees.

Her husband will be dating a thirty-year-old with implants.

Margaret is horrified by the thought.

So she heads downstairs to the kitchen and grabs the yellow pages. She looks up cosmetic surgeons. Maybe it's time to consider a tummy tuck and a breast lift.

Because Margaret knows that God helps those who help themselves.

Or maybe Margaret ultimately decides against cosmetic surgery. She tells herself,
Screw it.
She's going to love herself for who she is, not what she looks like naked in the mirror.

She's going to embrace all that it means to be a woman.

Even the sagging breasts.

Cara Lockwood

My brother Matt
(seven years younger in actual years, light-years younger in emotional years) was like most baby brothers: he spent his entire childhood trying to get me in trouble. I was his only sibling, and as he calls me now, “more infallible than the pope,” when it came to my parents. I could do no wrong, and worse, didn't even try to do wrong and get away with it.

My brother, in fact, holds a grudge against me to do this day for not properly breaking in my parents with rebellion, sneaking out late, and, as my brother was prone to do, having parties where (drunk) high school varsity football players knocked down my dad's front door.

In fact, to this date, my very worst rebellion occurred at age ten when I “ran away.” Technically, I wasn't the one doing the running. My bad-influence friend, Christi, had decided she was fed up with her parents and wanted to run away. I was only tagging along to convince her to go back home.

Christi got us both caught before I could convince her to go home, because she made the mistake of trying to lug an extra-large pink Samsonite suitcase out the front door of her parents' house. She made it no farther than a block. Back then, suitcases didn't have wheels. Her arms gave out along with her will to rebel.

“You didn't break in the parents for me, you know,” Matt tells me even now. “I mean, you didn't do
anything.”

He says this as if not having a kegger party when I was a sophomore is a character failing.

“You were b-o-r-i-n-g. Boring.” Matt likes to spell things out for effect and to prove he can.

In my defense, being the “good kid” wasn't entirely my fault. Not exactly.

I had the typical Eldest Child Syndrome. The very first thing Mom told me when she let me hold my baby brother was “Remember, you're the oldest now, and that means you've got a lot of new responsibilities.”

At age seven, I didn't know what this meant exactly. My only responsibilities up until that time had been making sure I kept my Barbies out of the path of my dad, who would curse if he stepped on one. I soon found out that being the oldest meant I had to do more work. Namely, keep my brother out of trouble. This was a full-time job.

Matt, you see, had a nose for trouble. He, like Fudge—the infamous little brother of the Fudge books—was a trouble magnet. I like to imagine that if Peter Hatcher's younger brother made it to his teen years, he'd be just like Matt (police visit at age thirteen for joyriding in a girl's car, kegger party at age fifteen, brawl outside homecoming football game at age seventeen).

It was my responsibility to keep him from eating the things he found on the floor. He had a taste for dead crickets. He also liked to play with electrical sockets, sharp edges, and glass. I'm sure if there were cyanide capsules in the house, he would crawl right to them.

And then my brother started to walk, and my life was never the same again.

Like Fudge, Matt was a whirling dervish of trouble. Did he get into my stuff and destroy my toys? Check. Did he fall down and hurt himself, and did I get in trouble for it? Check. Did he blame me for things he ate/broke/destroyed? Double check.

And when I complained, what did my mother say? “Cara, you've got responsibilities now. You're the oldest, and you're supposed to look after your younger brother.”

When pressed, Mom would gently remind me that I asked for a little brother.

It's true that I was one of those kids who bugged her parents all the time for a little brother or sister. That's because I had no idea what Play Doh could do to my hair.

I lived in a neighborhood of teenagers and retirees. I was lonely and wanted a playmate. You see, I had delusions of the ideal little sibling. He or she would naturally know that I knew best instinctively. He or she would always want to play the games I wanted to play, how I wanted to play them, because I'd be the wise, all-knowing older sister. In short, my younger brother or sister would be my indentured servant, waiting upon my every need, idolizing and worshipping me.

I had a vision of a little brother like Tattoo on
Fantasy Island.
He would wear a white tuxedo and do my bidding, and the only words he'd be allowed to speak would be, “The plane, boss! The plane!”

I asked for Tattoo. What I got was the Tasmanian Devil.

Worse, I was no longer the best, cutest, or most loved child of my parents. This is something Peter knew all too well. In the Fudge books, Peter's little brother is the “cute” one. Fudge is even picked to be in a television commercial.

Like Peter, I couldn't understand why everyone suddenly thought my little brother was so adorable and I wasn't. I was seven, but I felt like I should be doing a scene in
Sunset Boulevard.
Overnight, I wasn't cute anymore. Or adorable. I was over the hill.

Dad bought a brand-new video camera (the first we'd ever had) and set it up on a tripod in front of Matt's baby swing. I might as well have been Norma Desmond asking for her close-up, because Dad had no interest in filming me. All he wanted to do was focus the camera lens on Matt.

This, I could not understand. From my perspective, Matt was a talentless hack. The only thing he could manage at age six months was drooling. And pooping. Neither of which, I thought, was very film-worthy.

I, however, had talent. I could smile and pose for the camera. I could do cartwheels. I could sing
and
dance. I knew all the lyrics to “Rainbow Connection.” But was Dad interested? No.

I was a washed-up studio actress. I was a has-been.

I knew then that things had changed, and not for the better.

And they would only get worse.

From the time my brother could crawl, his mission in life was to get me in trouble. Like Peter, I got blamed for things my little brother did, or didn't do. Mom had a soft spot for Matt, just like Peter's mom did for Fudge, and I was now the “big sister with responsibilities” and was always supposed to keep an eye out for my brother.

Unfortunately, Matt was more interested in keeping an eye on me than I was on him. Matt's favorite game was called “Get Cara in Trouble.” He did this in a number of ways. Like Fudge, he'd get into snacks like cookies or animal crackers, devour them all, and then if caught, he'd blame me. He'd blame me when he threw one of his toys across the room or if one of his toys broke. But he didn't stop there.

He thought up elaborate schemes to get me on the wrong side of Mom, including one called the Tonka Truck Ploy.

His con was evil but simple.

He'd sneak up behind me while I lay on the carpet watching cartoons, then clunk me on the head with his giant metal Tonka dump truck. Naturally, in fair retaliation, I'd swipe at him, landing a blow (a lot less painful than a heavy metal truck, I might add) on the leg or arm.

Matt, a master flopper even then, would turn on the water-works and start screaming as if I'd just removed one of his toes with a pair of pliers. He'd run to Mom, claim I'd beaten him within an inch of his life, and instantly Mom would start in on her “Cara, you've got responsibilities” speech.

This would have probably eventually led to a concussion, except that Mom caught him once whacking me on the head with his favorite Tonka, and that ended that charade. But my brother soon found new ways to torment me.

Like all younger siblings, he wanted to get into my stuff. I don't know if Mom watched him during the day or if she just patted him on the head and let him waddle into my room unattended, but every day when I got home, I found my room in shambles. My Barbies lay strewn across the carpet, decapitated and dismembered. My diary and coloring books would have pages ripped out or colored in. And my sticker collection? Forget it. The precious unicorn puffy stickers I'd been delicately saving would be plastered all over my wall, or worse, the toilet.

The toilet, in fact, was my brother's favorite toy. With his never-ending toilet fixation, I was convinced he'd grow up to be a plumber. He flushed entire rolls of toilet paper (including the roll bar). He flushed potpourri, Matchbox cars, my mom's mascara, the dog's collar, and an entire box of Legos. He kept flushing until he plugged up the toilet and it overflowed, and then he'd clap his hands, laugh manically, and run away, as if it was all part of his plan for world domination.

Ironically, while he loved flushing inanimate objects down the toilet, he took forever to potty train. (He wanted to use the toilet for every use, except for the one it was intended.)

I tried putting up “Do Not Enter” signs, along with “This means you, MATT!!!!” warnings, but they were useless, in part because Matt couldn't yet read.

Fudge also loved invading Peter's room. In
Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing,
when Fudge sneaks into Peter's room and destroys his class project poster, Peter furiously cries to his mother, “You don't love me!”

I knew exactly how he felt. In fact, when he asked his mom for a lock on his door, she replied diplomatically, “We're a family, Peter. And families don't have locks on their doors.”

Well, family or no, I wanted a lock on my door. In fact, Peter asking for one gave me an idea. I'd ask for one, too. Only I wouldn't give up as easily as Peter.

Like Peter's mom, my mom initially vetoed the idea of a lock. That's when I decided to appeal her decision to a higher power: Santa Claus.

That Christmas, the only thing on my list was a lock on my door.

At age ten, I had no idea how much locks cost. For all I knew, they were really expensive. But I wanted one. I wanted one worse than a bike or Barbie's Pink Corvette.

Mom kept asking me, “You're sure you don't want something else? A Cabbage Patch doll? Barbie's Swimming Pool?”

“No,” I said resolutely. “All I want is a lock.”

The way I figured it, without a lock, new toys would just be ruined in a matter of days. Matt would rip them apart and then flush the pieces down the toilet.

My mom finally took pity on me. She relented after Matt wrecked my Barbie dreamhouse. He stomped on it like a mini-Godzilla, then flushed pieces of the cardboard elevator along with Barbie's head down the toilet.

That Christmas, I got the lock I wanted. And a new Barbie.

Of course, like all things I asked for, the lock turned out to be a mixed blessing. My brother's next trick was locking me out of my own room. He did this by lying in wait outside my room when I left, then running into it and locking it from the inside.

I learned quickly how to pick my own room lock with a screwdriver, and so did my brother.

He and I were in an arms race, only instead of nuclear weapons at stake, it was my privacy. I wanted it, and so did he.

And every time I went to Mom, she said, “Work it out. This is your responsibility.”

We didn't work it out. We were too busy fighting our own version of the Cold War. We couldn't openly declare war in front of our parents, but we both knew what was on the line. Total and complete household domination.

He ran over my favorite “My Little Pony” with his tricycle. I changed the channel during important parts of his favorite cartoon, “Thundercats.” He flushed my Bonnie Bell collection down the toilet. I took all the batteries out of all his toys and hid them. He ran—naked—through the house, embarrassing me in front of a cute boy visiting his grandparents next door. I put him in a headlock and tickled him until he cried uncle. He stole my diary and ripped out all the pages, then told everyone my secret “crush.” I sent him into a bush to get a Frisbee where I knew a couple of wasps lay in wait.

Our fights were so numerous and so bad that my grandmother told us we couldn't come to visit anymore. We spent two weeks with her one summer, and by that time, she'd had enough. This is the woman who is a born-again Christian, and who is, by all accounts, the sweetest woman on earth. And she uninvited us.

Sure, I could've been more patient. More inclusive. More caring of my Fudge. But come on. He played in the toilet and ran around without pants on. It's not exactly the sort of show you want your friends to see.

And worse, like Fudge, Matt got everything he ever asked for. He was spoiled—through and through.

Mom told me I couldn't have bunk beds in my room because I was only one person. Matt got a bunk bed. Mom told me I couldn't have small pets in my room. Matt got two guinea pigs, two lizards, and a hermit crab. Mom told me I couldn't have a television in my room. Matt got a TV with cable and Nintendo. And the list goes on. And on. And on.

But every so often, you're reminded that none of that really matters.

One afternoon, when Matt was four and I was eleven, everything changed.

Mom was getting ready for a party. She was having friends over, so she shooed us both out of the house so that she could clean. Cleaning was impossible if Matt was in the vicinity, with his sticky chocolate-covered hands and crayons, and besides, he'd probably just flush the sponges down the toilet.

Matt took his new motorized mini-three-wheeler (a plastic thing you could pedal or press a button to make it go—another injustice. I had only a Big Wheel and a bicycle—all manually powered. My brother, ever spoiled, had the option to buzz around on an electric-powered three-wheeler) and started taking laps around the kidney-shaped pool in our backyard. Mom admonished me just minutes before that I was to watch him and “make sure he didn't get dirty.” This was a little like asking me to negotiate a peace treaty between Palestine and Israel, but I decided I'd do my best. My brother could find dirt from the inside of a hermetically sealed bubble, so it was an uphill battle trying to keep him clean for more than thirty seconds at a time.