Mammaries of the way we were…

Seeing as how I’m approaching 40 in a few months, my OB/GYN thought it was a good idea to get a baseline screening, so I had my first mammogram last week.

Fun times, right?

Got the ole gals slapped up on a little shelf and squished in a machine so they could take a look at my mammaries.

It actually wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.  Well, I really didn’t think it was going to be that bad to begin with, but I thought I’d have to be trapped with my boobs in a vice for quite some time.

Wouldn’t you know it, I was in and out of the office in less than 10 minutes.  Easy peasy.

The worst part happened before I even got in the car.

Earlier that day, I had warned my two kids that they were going to have to accompany me to a doctor’s appointment that afternoon.  They wouldn’t be allowed in the room with me, so before we left, we’d need to gather some books or something to keep them occupied so that they wouldn’t either charge the scan room every ten seconds or destroy the waiting room.

As vague as I tried to be, my daughter just kept heckling me.  “What kind of doctor IS IT?“  “Why can’t we come in?” “How come you don’t feel comfortable with me in the room while you’re completely naked, with your boobs and your pride crushed like a bug?”

Thankfully, my husband was able to rearrange things at work to take the kids off my hands so I could get my mammogram in peace.  The plan was for my daughter and I to pick my son up at camp and meet my husband at the parking lot of my doctor’s office to do a quick hand-off.

The thought process being that it would save me the humiliation of having to bring my children in to view yet another awkward lady appointment.  Because I still don’t think my daughter has recovered from accompanying me to my yearly gynecologist appointment a month ago.

Scarred. For. Life.

So, I picked up my son in his classroom and we’re walking out the door with a bunch of other families who are waiting to say goodbye and thanks to the camp counselors.  And just after my son says “Thanks!” and gives the male counselor a High Five, my daughter blurts out

“We’re going with my Mommy to her doctor’s appointment so she can get her boobies flattened like pancakes!”

Cue red cheeks and nervous laughter.

Lesson learned.  Be careful what I divulge to the kids.

Actually, this latest story is not the most embarrassing that’s every happened to me concerning my chest.

My now-husband and I had been dating for a little over a year when we went to visit his family up at a lake to celebrate the summer.  The entire family was there:  grandmothers, great-aunts, uncles once removed, teenage cousins.

It was a super fun day.  We took the boat out on the lake a few times, enjoyed some tubbing, and had a great lunch out on the patio.

As I reached down to pick up something off the ground during lunch clean-up, I heard a SNAP!

Then I felt a breeze.

The clasp to my bikini top had busted and sent all the cloth covering my girls flying like a slingshot.

In my panic, I just flailed and screeched and tried to grab a nearby towel.  My sister-in-law quickly came to my rescue, but not before every relative of my boyfriend had gotten a good look at my boobs.

I was mortified.  The ladies in the family came to my side and escorted me in to the house, where there was a vigorous search for a sewing kit.

It was then that my boyfriend’s mother told me her own personal tales of humiliation and costume malfunctions.

Sadly, after breastfeeding two children for a total of 32 months, there ain’t nothing really left to see now if that scenario had happened today.

It’s probably why my mammogram took a millisecond.