My boobs are enormous right now. Like zeppelins, really.
So gargantuan have they become, that they’ve earned a blog post all to themselves. So let’s double-park them for a moment to discuss how pregnancy has re-introduced ‘the twins’ back into my life.
I’m a B-cup gal... not too big, not too small. What men describe as a handful. In reference to the size of my chest, that is, although often also referring to the difficulty level in managing my drama queen tendencies. In that way, I guess all women are a handful.
Back to my jugs, though.
By the time Travis was born, I was an eye-popping D cup. Gigantic, like on a planetary scale! It was like having two satellite moons caught in my gravitational field. They threatened to burst from my ridiculously comfortable cotton nursing bras like jostling piglets. I hated it.
Magazines and websites helpfully point out that having your breasts inflated by pregnancy hormones is a big plus for the man in your life. But let me tell you, the cons far outweigh (ahem) the pros. There’s nothing sexy about watching your wife-slash-girlfriend’s melons leak colostrum and breast milk in the shower, or hell, even when you’re out grocery shopping. It’s frightening stuff.
What’s even more frightening, now that I’m 22 weeks’ in with Bump, is that I’m probably going to make D-cups looks so... last... pregnancy. Now I’m faced with the prospect of *gasp* E cups. They exist, right?
This is new territory for me.
The practical thing to do would be to get my ballooned butt down to a maternity specialist store or boutique or whatever and get myself measured and fitted for a proper set of bras. Oh, and take out a second mortgage to pay for them. But I’m squeamish about other women touching my hooters.
I know, you’d think after being pinched, tweaked, squeezed and milked by lactation consultants after Travis was born, I’d be over it. When you’re pregnant, you have to accept that your boobs are re-classified as communal property.
And these boutique chicks with the measuring tapes, I mean, they do actually touch your naked chest, right? Because I don’t see how they can get an accurate measurement if they just loop the tape over the bra you walked in with, or even over your shirt? Surely that’s a waste of time?
In the meantime, I’m figuring out what I can do when I’m done with the super-practical Woolies D-cups I’ve had to invest in. Because I can see I’m not going to get much more wear out of them.
Perhaps the kids can use them as inners under their bicycle helmets. You could fashion them into slingshots big enough to fling bowling balls over enemy lines. If you sewed the two cups together, presto, you have an oven mitt. Knee guards? Serving bowls?
Even Travis the Lionheart is mesmerised by the two inflatables that take up half the tub when I join him for a bath. It’s a wonder that I don’t tip over forward when I walk!