Dear Righty,
Get your shit together.
Every day is not some sort of all-you-can-eat Thanksgiving dinner buffet. You need to learn the subtle art of supply and demand. My almost three month old’s stomach is only the size of a chicken egg, so why do you insist on creating 5-7 ounces of milk by yourself? In case you didn’t know, 5-7 ounces in my what used to be A cup REALLY HURTS. You’ve got your lifelong friend Lefty to back you up if you wanted her to. She’s rocking 3.5-4 ounces on the regular herself, so together you guys are over-freakin’-whelming. Not to mention when I look in the mirror, I’m visibly lopsided. You’re going to turn me into a social pariah. “Oh, there goes Tara. Man, her boobs are SO uneven.” That’s what they’re going to be saying about us, Righty. Do you want that? I know I don’t.
You’re partied out, man. Again.
Just so you know, I’m having a hard time keeping up with the snacks to feed your ridiculous milk making habits. My jaw hurts from chewing what seems like thousands of granola bars, and it’s still not enough for you. I swear you’re going to consume me in some kind of black hole-esque vortex if you keep this up, so stop stealing so many pounds off my body. I’d like to not be a waif, for E’s sake. No one likes cuddling with the mommy version of Skeletor. (Although now that I think about it, Skeletor was pretty muscle-y. How about cuddling with Skeletor’s face. That part was bony and haggard, for sure.)
I don’t know, maybe you’ve got the boob version of Napoleon Complex. I know you used to be the smaller boob in our old life, but that doesn’t mean you have to take it out on me now that you’ve discovered your power. You weren’t that much smaller. No one noticed, I promise. You can end this campaign of conquest, this neverending stream of pain and suffering. I respect you now.
You probably won’t listen to my pleading, but I felt I had to try. Otherwise this is going to be a long year of unnecessary cursing and painful grimaces. So, if you could, just save us both some time and energy and slow your roll. This letter may come off a little harsh, but you know I love you baby. I mean, you know that, right?
With respect,
Tara
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