a note to Lilah from my boobs

We don't know how to say this exactly, and it breaks our heart to have to say it at all, but we've been silent for too long, so here goes.

We think it's best if we broke it off. It's not that we don't love you; we just feel it's time to move on, time for us to go our separate ways. No, we haven't met someone else; don't even go there. Sure, there's your father; but that's been going on on the side for a while now. You knew about that, right? Please tell us you knew.

Didn't know. Shit.

But your father--he's not the reason we're telling you this now. He has nothing to do with it, nothing at all. For months now, we've been feeling like the magic just isn't there anymore, not to mention the milk. We're tired of going through the motions. It just all feels so empty now. And it pains us--we mean literally, it pains us--to have to keep up this charade.

We kind of sense, even though you talk big, that the passion is gone for you too. You ask to nurse, and then, if your mom tries to distract you, you get huffy with her and demand it. "Nuss!" you say, furrowing your brow, banging on us with your fists through her clothing. Eventually, she'll give in, sit down with you, and whip one of us out--a risky venture these days, at least in public, what with her ease fitting into her low-rise jeans, and her difficulty keeping the three extra inches of tummy from hanging over them. But you'll nurse for ten seconds, tops, before demanding the other one. And in just moments you'll be done with that one too. You'll hear a sound--a friend on the playground, say, if your mom is picking you up from preschool, or one of the cats bounding about if you're at home--and then push away. Done. You've got other things that interest you, other things you are now passionate about. Like bringing the kitten crayons. Spending as much time naked as possible. Driving your parents crazy when it's the end of the day and all they want is to get you into your goddamn pajamas Playing chase. Sipping those banana-flavored yogurt drinks with a straw.

Ask yourself in an honest moment whether we're just a crutch for you, whether you rely on us for no other reason than that we're familiar. Ask yourself whether that's really the best thing for you. Ask yourself how long you think this can go on.

Sure, we've had some good times. Remember when you were young and we were so engorged that your mom couldn't lie on her stomach and if for some reason you weren't ready to nurse the milk would just spurt out anyway in a sticky, embarrassing mess the milk flowed freely? Remember when each of us was twice the size of your head? Remember how you used to nurse and then drift off to sleep, with a droplet of milk collected in the corners of your sleep smile? Remember the sounds you used to make?

We will always cherish those memories, and we hope that after the hurt has worn off for you, you will too.

Oh, um, we changed the voice mail greeting, and we'd like you to have everything cleared out of the apartment by Sunday evening, if that's all right. You can leave the key in the mailbox.