Chapter 5: Hey, Neighbor! You've Got Wee Boobies!

I've just weaned my daughter Abigail. I've been glum about it, and Ambrosia, in her own special way, has been trying to cheer me up. At least I think that's what she's been doing. Last week she regaled me with tales of her breasts through three pregnancies. "I used to be huge," she says. "When I got pregnant with Dugan in high school, I got up to a double D." She puts her hands out in front of herself like some lascivious guy describing a flight attendant with giant mel-OWNS. She's proud. "Then came Harlan," she says. Her eyes always roll when she mentions Harlan, and perhaps this is why: "He wouldn't stop sucking on them things," she says, "and I think that's why I ended up -- phhhfft -- flat as a board." She pulls out the front of her blouse, looks down inside, and adds with a smile, "Meddow got them back on track."

You know what? People who are weaning don't generally give a crap about their breast size. It's sort of not the issue. I think Ambrosia doesn't get this. I think she thinks the long look I've had on my face all week is about the possible deflation of my breasts and the devastation that smaller or flabbier breasts could cause to me and those who care about me. I think she thinks she is being my rock.

Yesterday she appeared on our shared turf with her half-smoked cigarette in hand, plopped down on a lawn chair, looked me up and down, and said, "Look at you! At least they're still pretty perky."

At least? What the hell is that supposed to mean? I don't even know how to respond to this bizarre greeting. I mean, how about a simple hello, lady? "Oh, they've changed," I say with a forced smile. "I went up and I went back down, too."

"At least you can buy the cute bras at that size," she says, making a sort of swirling, sweeping gesture toward my chest.

"I never do," I reply. Try as I might, it's not easy to look flippant when someone's basically pantomiming at me: You have kitten boobies. "I usually just buy the cheapest white bra in the store."

"Hell, you should shop in the little girls' section," she says. "They've got cute bras."

I'm shocked, confused, and a little tempted to seize on Ambrosia and rip her bleach-blonde hair out by its black roots. I'm a C cup, for cripes sakes. Is this freakishly small? Do I need to join a circus? Does any of this matter when my heart is breaking over my daughter's confusion at being suddenly cut off from her favorite thing in the whole wide world? Does anyone know if we have to make disclosure to potential buyers about Ambrosia's social skills, in our Real Estate Condition Report?