|Photo used with permission from Microsoft.|
But you know what? It was okay.
I wore lightly padded t-shirt bras [ed. note: I was going to put a link to Victoria's Secret* but the photos of women with slightly parted lips and billowing breasts made me throw up in my mouth], and I was thin enough for a flat chest to be perfectly fine. Not sexy, but fine. I was fine.
Fine, fine, finey, fine, FINE.
Then I got pregnant and my boobs went up to a full size A cup. It was amazing!
"Look how big I am!" I'd cry to Rayne, who would nod and kiss me on the head, in adoration and not at all to comfort me in my moment of hysterical delusion.
A few days after I had Henry, I hit the boob jackpot: my milk came in. All of a sudden I had these ginormous size B breasts that I could barely stuff into my size A bras.
"LOOK. HOW. BIG. I. AM."
Rayne had to admit, at that point, that I definitely had legitimate boobs.**
Those legitimate boobs stuck around for the entire year in which I nursed Henry. I bought some 34Bs and shoved my 34As to the back of the drawer. I almost gave them away, but I thought it would jinx me. If kept the 34As, I reasoned, I would never need them again.
As soon as I weaned Henry, my boobs deflated like two pathetic birthday balloons found in the corner of your living room three months after your son's birthday party. (True story.)
But they didn't go back to the firm, perky 34As of my youth. Nooooooooo.
They are, instead, like two stretched out crew socks hanging from my sternum. And I'm no longer thin and able to pass my booblessness off as heroin chic, or whatever. Now when I lie down my boobs collapse into my fatty torso, like two flans in a cupboard.***
And all I have to say is, What. The. Actual. Fuck.
Aren't your boobs supposed to get bigger after you have children? Isn't that one of the material benefits? When my embryonic cells were standing in line at the gene pool, how did they miss that part?
I want a refund.
*Not Victoria Secret's! Stop saying that!
**Is anyone feeling bad for my husband right now? Well, you can stop. It's 1:30 in the morning and he is snoring away on our comfortable Sleepy's Memory Foam mattress entirely oblivious to the world, while I am simultaneously staring wide-eyed at the computer screen and squinting, because I don't have my contacts in and Henry found my glasses on the couch today and brought them to me -- so helpfully, so sweetly -- after having rubbed his grimy little fingers all over the lenses. SO, EVERYONE, QUIT FEELING BAD FOR RAYNE. HE'S NOT THE ONE WITH MOMSOMNIA.
***I stole that metaphor from the incomparably funny Eddie Izzard. He uses it to describe the Austro-Hungarian Empire in this hilarious clip from Dress to Kill.