I had a friend who got a boob job and pulled me into the public bathroom of a smoky, crowded bar to proudly display her new chest.

"Go on, touch!" She urged. I shook my head no. But later, I wished I had. What did they feel like? Were they hard, like clay? Or did they feel soft like Jell-O? I was consumed with jealousy over my friend's transformation. Without a backward glance, she deserted us flat-chested women and joined the exclusive club of voluptuous, head-turning, full-breasted women. Her choice to change the physical shape of her unsatisfactory body left me thinking. If she could do it, why couldn't I?

I couldn't wait to get pregnant and listened, giddy with excitement, to my friends who said they went up three cups sizes when they were expecting. Finally, I thought, finally. I waited with an unsettling flashback to adolescence, where month after disappointing month I'd checked and prayed for growth. My stomach grew larger but my breasts didn't budge. I looked unbalanced; concave up top and balloon like on bottom. When my son was born, the nurses handed him to me and I reached for him, drawing him to my chest, breathing him in. It was time to try and feed him, they told me. I lifted up my nightgown and the lactation nurse came over to help, pulled aside my gown and said, "Oh, these are so tiny!" I was humiliated. Will struggled to "latch on." I pinched and forced my tiny A cup breasts into his little mouth, and he turned away. I couldn't nurse. I was a failure. We struggled like this for days. Will lost over a pound, and my husband and I had to stick a syringe filled with formula in his mouth, which he sucked down gratefully.

I plummeted into age-old fears that my flat chest was a sign that I should have been a boy. All those years with an irregular period, the problems I'd had getting pregnant, and the months of fertility drugs convinced me of my failure as a female. I thought of my own mother who nursed my sister and me until we were eighteen months old. Five long days later, I felt a pulsing, a hardening. Tentatively placing my hands on my chest, my hand came away wet. My milk had come in! I was so relieved I cried. I brought my newborn son to my chest and for forty-five minutes, willed him to latch on. I heard that sound, that sucking and swallowing, the hormones flooded my body, and I breathed out with relief. I was not a failure. My milk had come in, and soon, my boobs were fabulous too.

Will was weaned at thirteen months and my boobs disappeared. I stared in the mirror in shock. I had finally discovered what it was like to have breasts, and now they were gone. I couldn't understand how it was physically possible for them to be so full, blue veins bulging through my creamy white, never exposed to the sun skin, and now they were empty, flat, tiny, and devoid of purpose. I mourned the loss of my breasts. I went back to my old padded bras, and stopped wearing my v-neck shirts. I was glad it was winter.

My second son was a breastfeeding champ from the start. At ten pounds eight ounces, he nursed all the time. For the second time in my life, I had fabulous boobs. The forty-three pounds I'd gained during my pregnancy melted away, and I walked proudly in my bathing suit down the beach with my baby on my hip, my older son at my side. For the first time in my life, I believed that my body was beautiful. I loved that my breasts were in proportion to the rest of my body. I had reason now to stand tall, to maintain good posture. I reached up and touched them to test their fullness; which side needs to be nursed? I was all woman.

When Miles was done nursing, that was it. Just like the first time, my boobs shrank and became purposeless. At thirty-five, this was surely my last baby. This was the last time my body would produce milk to nourish my child. With every fiber in my body, I mourned the loss of my breasts. The precious hormones that had kept me afloat through our daily chaos and monotony drained from my body like water down the tub.

I thought about my friend again and her body-altering surgery. I flipped through the phonebook casually, looking at the Plastic Surgery section of the yellow pages. I made jokes to my husband to test his reaction. But how I could explain a boob job to my family? How could I explain that by changing my body, I thought I would feel better, be happier? How could I explain that my small breasts that have nursed both boys long and hard to good health were not good enough? How could I justify five thousand dollars for a surgeon to cut into my skin, stretch the muscles of my breasts apart, and insert a gel-like substance? Money that could be spent a million different ways for a million better reasons. I made an appointment for a consultation.

"We can go in through the nipple, under the breast or in this region, under the arm," the plastic surgeon said, pointing to a diagram. "The body responds to the implant with scar tissue. The body is saying these are not mine, this is a natural response." Not mine. Sitting on the examining table in her office, I thought, not mine. She explained this to me so I would be educated about the process. She very rarely had to do repair surgery, she explained. I tried to read her face; I thanked her and hurried out of the office.

I bought an expensive padded bra and gave my sister the sweaters and shirts that were so flattering when I was nursing. When I catch myself staring at my small breasts in the mirror, I think, not mine, and my toxic thoughts drain away. For the moment. Yesterday Will watched me emerge from the shower with a shy smile on his face.

"I like your boobs Mom," he said.

"Thanks, " I answered. We talked about how girls had boobs and boys didn't. He smiled at me, from his position in the doorway like I was beautiful. And for a moment, I was. Miles will grow taller, and like his brother, will lose his round cheeks and chubby legs. His eyes will see past me, and his hands will reach out for things that are beyond me. And when he falls down and hurts himself, I now offer him my shoulder instead of my breast.

Amy Mercer is a freelance writer living in Charleston, SC with her husband Dale and sons Will (4) and Miles (2), who are both her muses and roadblocks. Her personal essays, mostly involving the daily adventures of raising two boys, have been published in Skirt! magazine.