After the humorous nature of my last few posts I felt we should be a bit more serious this time and talk about something that’s been bugging me. My boobs.
Oh. Wait. Reverse that. Also, anyone not comfortable with the discussion of breasts and breastfeeding should probably go read something else. I recommend this. But for now I’m going to honour breast cancer awareness month and share with you the ups and downs of my bosom.
Over the years I have developed an extreme love/hate relationship with my breasts. Here’s a little history.
When I was in grade seven I was pretty much on my own in school. I was being bullied terribly by the girls in my class and taunted mercilessly by the boys. My self confidence was shot.
One day while getting ready for gym class I noticed a group of grade eight girls changing a few benches away. One of the girls had really big breasts. I remember staring at them as they hung there swinging in the breeze and thinking “I wish I had breasts like that.”
They always tell you to be careful what you wish for.
By grade eight I had surpassed this girl. I went from nothing to a C cup in less than a year. Much to my chagrin this didn’t make me any more popular. All it did was give them some larger targets to aim for.
By the time I started high school I was a fluctuating D/DD cup. I was awkward and self-conscious about my weight so I took to wearing baggy shirts and jeans. I didn’t mind my breasts so much then as I figured they helped even out my other curvy parts. Also I’d been told/read in magazines/seen on tv that boys liked them big.
In my later school years I met a friend who was very stylish and liked to shop. She taught me that a woman should always match right down to her bra and panties. So I quickly abandoned the granny bras my mom had been stuffing me into from Sears and took a trip to La Senza where I quickly found out I was some kind of bra size freak. At least by their standards. I was a DD but a very small ribcage. I didn’t fit in all those adorable little numbers with cherries and hearts and sparkles on them. It was down to black or…white. I was so jealous of my small-chested friend and her bag of cute underthings.
Over the years I considered breast reduction surgery. As I got older and closer to having children though I knew I wanted to breastfeed so surgery was out of the question.
Ah, pregnancy. I thought I was big before.
When I was pregnant with Joel I jumped from a DD to an H. AN H. Stands for HELLISHLY BIG.
Then I lost that pregnancy but my body did not return to “normal”. I remained an H cup.
Pregnant with Bean my body decided I wasn’t top heavy enough. So a K cup I became. K. Cause I could kill you with these things.
Being large chested always made things rather difficult. Running. Baseball. Any kind of sport, really. You know the scenes in anime where the guy and girl are playing some kind of sport or running or whatever and eventually they both trip at the guy ends up face first in her chest? Or with his hand on her boob? Yeah. That can happen in real life. Trust me.
T-shirts never fit right and trying to find a tank top that didn’t make me look like a porn star was a challenge. Corsets were fun though. Gave me a place to put my mead.
It wasn’t all bad though. I filled out certain tops rather nicely and enjoyed having my own flotation devices while swimming.
Now that you know a bit of where I’m coming from with regards to my breasts next installment will outline the recent challenges of pregnancy, breastfeeding and baby wearing.
Until then, please enjoy this photo of Bean on the breast.