I know they didn’t hold you up as much as you needed them to, but they were all I could bother putting on in those last few weeks of pregnancy and especially when I was just sweating through everything due to my enormity. You deserve proper cup separation and I failed you by opting for a giant, but oh so comfy, uniboob.

Functional, yet ugly, most nursing bras are built to provide easy access that I could navigate with one hand. They were structurally sound, and made me feel like I was wearing hospital clothing. Now, there are less matronly nursing bra options that I would have liked much better, but I’m sorry that, during the years I was breastfeeding my children, I couldn’t cover you up with something more fetching.

Those were my kid’s teeth, not mine. Nursing both children until they were around 2 years old did put you guys at risk for being bitten. But honestly, who could have seen that coming, really? I guess this is where the phrase “bite the hand that feeds you” comes from. I’m sorry. I should have given my toddlers more solids before letting them nurse.

I denied you the love and attention I enjoyed before motherhood. But see, breastfeeding is kind of a mindf*ck. How can I allow my boobs to be sources of food for my baby, and also serve as fun bags for my romantic partner? It just wasn’t possible. I appreciated your cooperation during this “no touching above the waist” dry spell.

Yeah, that really hurt. I know. I just thought I could make it a few more hours without you guys turning to boulders. It’s just that I hated carrying around that breast pump, and if it meant I didn’t have to shlep that machine (and its heavy ice pack) around for a while, I was willing to risk the pain of engorged breasts. I was thinking only of my convenience, and not your comfort. My bad.

The size of my breasts have fluctuated so much over the course of two pregnancies and over four collective years of breastfeeding. Most of my bras don’t fit perfectly, and while some may be too small in the cup, they’re too big in the band. So I just stuff you guys into whatever won’t show under my shirt, throw a scarf on to hide the side boob bulging out, and hope nobody notices. Sorry about that.

See above. I should probably ditch the bras that are loose on you now, but I think the part of me that keeps these baggy undergarments is hopeful you might fill them out again.

Also, bras are expensive and I hate having to replace them, especially since, if you want to do it right, you need to set aside hours to try billions of them on. I have no time for that, so I’ll just cover you up in these sacks and hike you up throughout the day as you creep lower to my navel.

Before kids, I had more of a shelf-like situation. There was a fullness to my rack that prevented wayward granola from dropping into my bra. But now, after two kids, there is a chasm where there once was cleavage. I used to be able to brush the crumbs from my avocado toast off the round top of my bosom, but now, they drop down into the valley between my winnowed breasts, collecting like rubble at the bottom of my stretched-out bra.

I mean, you still got it. You just need more arranging to settle into your most flattering shape. And I’m older now, so I don’t seek that attention I so desperately craved in my 20s when I spent more time worrying about how I looked rather than how I acted. But with two children, for whom I absolutely have to impress to act right, my focus is more on shaping their future than shaping my figure.

I guess some people name their girls. I’m just not cute that way. I didn’t want to get so attached to you. It’s like how I didn’t want to find out the gender of the baby both times I was pregnant. What if something terrible happened, and I couldn’t bring the kid to term, and now it had this name, this identity? That freaked me out.

So, sorry nameless boobs. You served me well, in sickness and in health and in breastfeeding most of all. You’re still along for the ride, which I know is a wonderful thing, given how many women I know are battling breast cancer. Sorry I didn’t put you on a pedestal, especially at your finest (seriously, you brought your A game in that ninth month of pregnancy). But, like my fingers and shoulders and earlobes, you were there when I needed you, and still there when I didn’t (like those times I tried to sleep on my stomach). You have done your job — the most important job I have ever had — nourishing my children, and paving the way for them to thrive.