Saturday, January 17, 2015

An Open Letter To My Boobs.

Dear mammary glands. Yes, I know. I'm pregnant. Yes, I realize the amount of hormones currently coursing through my bloodstream might cause a small moose to go insane. While I am glad I'm not a moose, I am a human and thus my problems are mainly of esthetic value. And placement. And also wardrobe functionality.

Because I would like to fit into my shirts. I mean, I knew my belly was going to get big. And I kinda knew my boobs might grow a little. But my belly still fits into all my clothes. The aforementioned bosomy culprits, however, are not so obliging.

Once upon a merry time when there was considerably less bun in the oven and my life was not spent wondering how much time I had before the nausea bus looped back around to run me over again, I took it for granted that my ladies would just fit in anything. I mean, I wasn't even that well endowed in terms of boobage. Okay, so I was a C cup. Was. I was happy with that C cup, that was sometimes a B cup when I wasn't about to have my period. Oh, period boobs. I used to think you were huge and tender. But no, you are nothing like pregnancy boobs. Comparing period boobs to pregnancy boobs is like comparing a waterfall to a tsunami or a dainty salvation baptism to the oncoming apocalypse.

I mean, not only are my boobs two (yes two) cup sizes bigger--they also, at certain times feel like they are on fire. Why this is a necessary sensation for procreation, I do not know. It is, however, decidedly NOT a pleasant one. And I'm only 14 weeks "gone". I'm not even in my third trimester. For all I know, these things are going to keep growing and then I'm going to need to wear one of those truck beepers whenever I walk around just to give people a warning to get out of the way. 

Yesterday I realized I could use my boobs as a shelf. Yes, a shelf. While my husband thought this was utterly hilarious, I was less amused.


Well. I'd be lying if I didn't mention the positives. For one, I have this thing called "cleavage" now. I'm not really familiar with such a phenomenon yet, but I know it makes my husband very happy for some odd reason. Not that he wasn't happy with me before, he is just enjoying the strange and unexplainable changes my body is going through with the satisfied grin of someone whose body does not currently feel like a science experiment. He only gets to watch. I guess he likes what he sees.

Another positive is the shopping, of course. I love shopping. I've already invested in several new, larger-chest-accommodating clothing items. My husband, however, is slightly less joyful about this predicament as you can imagine. Oh well. I can't hear him over the sound of my frenzied search for cute, fashionable maternity clothes that don't scream "I'M A MOM NOW AND I BELONG IN A VERY MODEST OFFICE". I'm convinced they don't exist.

And that, my dears, was my day today. If you need me I'll be trying to shove my tender female organs into my pajamas. Oh, who am I kidding. I'm wearing my husband's sweatpants and Virgina Tech printed tee tonight. Again.

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