I’ve never before had trouble with boobs or tatas or breasts or whatever you prefer to call them.
I’ve never had masses of mammary glands to maneuver around as I go about my every day work.
I was Flat Chested Charlie my whole life. I could wear shirts with deep vs practically down to my navel and no one would notice. I went for huge portions of college without a bra – which I must say is convenient when you don’t feel like doing laundry.
After college I started running and the boobs diminished even further.
Then I taught myself guitar…smaller.
Then I worked at a coffee shop, strenuously using every muscle of my puny upper body to make the perfect espresso shot, and they became smaller still.
It was last year around this time when I contracted the dreaded mono and lost a significant amount of weight in the span of a month and my little tits we were down to the size of tiny raisins dried in the sun and vacuum sealed only to be spit out later by some toddler who really wanted chicken nuggets.
All until I got pregnant.
It was like being in middle school again – the slightest graze would send me into weeping. I’ve grown three cup sizes and Clare isn’t even here yet nor the abundant white flood that is supposed to accompany her.
Someone told me this weekend that their friend’s mother was said to have 10 children not because she necessarily wanted that many but simply because the temptation of having magnificent pregnant boobs was just too great.
I suppose that the transition from titless to titful is easier for small chested girls and I can imagine the extreme struggle of the larger chested women that occurs when pregnancy strikes.
My boobs are hardly containable any more and I must say it has developed a new appreciation for women who deal with this all the time.
This last week at sewing camp I had a young girl say to me while I was leaning over some fabric, “Miss Val, your shirt.”
“Oh! Do I have some mustard on it?”
“Your shirt needs to come up.”
I flat out looked that girl in the face and said, “Too bad. Not happening. These boobs are too big for this shirt to come up any further than it already is.”
No more questions about the shirt.
But it’s true. They are just too big. I’ve had to abandon any sense of modesty with my clothes because my cleavage comes all the way up to my chin. I haven’t had to buy clothes to fit my stomach but rather to drape over my massive boobs.
The trouble with boobs is that fact that it can never be win win. You always love your boobs and you’re attached to them as a woman but you always hate them for some reason or another as well.
In other parts of my world: Whirlwind weekend – concert Friday night, college roommate comes into town, bridal shower Saturday afternoon, meet with out of town family Saturday night, baby shower Sunday afternoon, bring home gifts and close them in baby’s room where dog sleeps guarding “his” new possessions all night. More to come.