Lace 'em Up

MAYRAV SAAR

Register columnist

Zev turns 1 next month. Which means he'll taste his first bite of cake, drink his first sip of cow's milk, and surrender his All-Access Pass to my breasts.

Nursing my son has been an amazing bonding experience, and I ache at the thought of weaning him. But I also just plain ache. Zev's become quite the sharp-toothed suction fish, and I'm so used to being a dairy cow I can't remember what it was like to be a woman.

So it's with a little more delight than I'd anticipated that I am preparing to end this phase of motherhood. And I know exactly how I'm going to celebrate this milestone: I'm going to buy a big-girl bra.

I'm going to buy a bra that's pretty and frilly with underwire and actual support. One whose cups can't be unsnapped by the ever-refining motor skills of an 11-month-old. One that doesn't smell like milk.

I'm going to buy a bra that makes me feel like the women in those bra ads are paid to look like they feel.

I've never been a big underthingy person - unlike some people I know, I will actually leave the house in a brassiere that doesn't match my panties. But something about spending a year switching between two racer-back nursing bras has me pining for La Perla.

I hadn't recognized how obsessed I'd become with trading in my worn-out undergarments; but when I started to notice the amount of arm hair on individual underwear models, I realized I'd been staring at the ads too long.

In fact, I've become something like a pervert, pawing at padded pushups in department stores, caressing elastic bits of spandex-blend lace, tossing expectant glances at little spaghetti straps.

"Can I help you?" a Nordstrom saleswoman recently inquired.

"Not likely," I stammered. "I'm pretty much beyond help right now."

Maybe it's ridiculous, the way we allow what we wear to influence how we feel about ourselves. But tell me you wouldn't feel frisky if you were dressed like a rabbit, or invincible in a superhero outfit. Now imagine a superhero outfit with bunny ears and a tail, and you get an idea of what I'm shopping for.

A big-girl bra would also serve a very practical purpose: interference. Weaning is going to be somewhat difficult. I've already started the process, and Zev doesn't much care for it. He likes me. In fact, if he so much as catches a glimpse of my bare breasts, he screams and lunges at me. Think Victoria's Secret would give away their security guard free with purchase?

I've considered the possibility that my increased meditations on all things underwire is a coping mechanism, something to take my mind off the fact that my little baby is growing up and entering a new, more independent stage of his life.

I've considered that possibility. And I've dismissed it.

It's not that I've grown wary of nursing. I still love that sweet, milk-drunk smile that spreads over Zev's face after a feeding. I love the way his hand curls around my thumb and his giant eyes look up at me while he's gulping down his breakfast.

It's just that it's been nearly a year of this maternal bliss, and I'm ready to reclaim my body. Reclaim it, and stuff it into lace. This is going to be a difficult and delicate process, I realize. There will likely be tears - mine and his, and some frazzled nerves.

I might need a miracle to get through it, but for now I'll settle for a Miracle Bra.