When I was in high school, an immature, but very clever boy came up to me and said, “Did you know that women can touch their elbows behind their backs, but men can’t?”

And because I also believed him when he said that the word gullible wasn’t in the dictionary, I stood there trying to do it, my chest mere inches away from his delighted face. Over the summer, my breasts had outgrown the rest of my body and they were all the rage among the pubescent boy in my class. I, on the other hand, wasn’t the least bit excited about my disproportionately expanded bosom.

I know what you’re thinking. Is this girl seriously complaining that her boobs are too big? What’s next? Is she going to whine about how hard it is for her to gain weight? But the truth is that I was pretty self conscious about my upper body. And it wasn’t just because guys were constantly trying to peek down my shirt. Having a small frame and large boobs meant that buying a bathing suit was a major hassle, that strapless bras never stayed on properly, and that saleswomen in fitting rooms referred to you as “busty” when helping you try on a cocktail dress that wouldn’t zip up past your ribcage. I realize that those weren’t absolutely tragic, life-altering incidents, but they were definitely inconveniences.

After I got pregnant, one of the things I worried most about was the size of my boobs. “How much more can they grow before they just explode??” I thought to myself as they kept expanding, rivaling the girth of my belly.

And then Luki was born…

My breasts got even bigger as they filled with milk and became my baby’s sole source of nutrition, but, instead of feeling self conscious and embarrassed by their size, I felt emboldened by their purpose.

It took a few months, but eventually, I stopped caring about what they looked like and pulled them out anywhere, anytime my child was hungry. Friends, relatives, complete strangers at The Olive Garden — they’ve all seen my boobs. And I’m absolutely OK with that.

A few weeks ago my son decided that he no longer wanted to nurse. Every time I offered my breast, he pushed it away and tried to wiggle out of my arms in order to go suck on something more satisfying, like a remote control or an electrical cord. It was incredibly frustrating.

After a week and a half of trying, unsuccessfully, to get him back on my boob, I surrendered my dream of breastfeeding until his first birthday and closed the milk bar. (Yes, I could have pumped. But you all know how I feel about the electric boob sucker.)

I was pretty bummed out about the unexpected end to our nursing relationship until I realized that my breasts had gotten significantly smaller than they were before I got pregnant!

This past weekend, I tried on every single dress I own and was delighted to find that the top of my chest wasn’t overflowing out of them. It was awesome. And I felt great.

So there you have it. The story of my boobs. A long and personal diatribe to say that motherhood: it has changed me. It has changed me in all kinds of ways. I feel more confident, more beautiful, more like the person I’ve always aspired to become. And it’s all thanks to my son.