Pregnancy Perks: An Ode to Boobs
22 weeks/5 months
While at the park the other day, I caught myself staring at another mom’s chest. Now before you denounce me a creeper, let me explain. I was admiring her bosoms. That didn’t make it any better did it? I’m really not some sort of pervert, just a pregnant lady looking forward to having a little bit of rack back.
My chesticles have always been on the less endowed side and it’s never bothered me before, but after nursing did an unkind number on mah girls, I’ve been missing them dearly. Nursing for a year completely robbed them of any type of A-cup status they were trying to pull off. I mean they weren’t just flapjacks after breastfeeding, they were concave!
Nursing is so rough on the boobies. Just when you think pregnancy can’t make them any bigger, a miracle of Biblical proportions occurs and they become functioning dairy farms the size of Kilimanjaro overnight. And then they deflate. They go from boobies to droopies before your very eyes. And let’s not get into the plethora of bras necessary to house those shape-shifting fun bags and the cash money that must be parted with so Oprah doesn’t give you a bra intervention.
No, I don’t need my milkshake to bring all the boys to the yard, but I do need a reason to force me to put a bra on in the morning because most days, social convention just ain’t strong enough. I also don’t want to be Dolly Parton or have people secretly admiring my breastesses while they’re supposed to be innocently playing at the park (such a double standard I have).
I do want to feel like a woman and not my seventh-grade self who only donned a bra because I was the lone wolf in the girls’ locker room without one. I want to feel like a woman dangit, because between my daughter’s erroneous trajectory of pee and being her personal booger-blowing handkerchief, sometimes being a mom ain’t sexy. I just want to enjoy some decolletage for awhile before they become another babe’s playground. Is that too much to ask? Sure, they may be covered in human byproducts but at least I have cleavage to cover in human byproducts.
I’m petitioning you to pardon my admiration of another mom’s ladylicious chest, because my growing girlfriends mean I feel more like a woman and less like a teenage mother.
While I’m still young and pregnant and the boobs aren’t a milk factory or saggers and draggers yet, I’m reveling in what those of us who suffer from booblessness like to think is actual cleavage. At 22 weeks, that ain’t much, but I’m dreaming of bigger and better bosoms that will maybe make the 9th month of pregnancy sexier than the grannie panties and elephant brassiere I’ll inevitably be sporting.