Okay, I have talked at length about puking and farting, and now I have a new, rather sensitive topic to discuss this week -- the effects of pregnancy on your chest. Hooters, ta-ta's, chi-chi's, titties, knockers, headlights, pointers, mounds, boulders, and as some ghetto people like to call them, tig old bitties. If you are a little lost on that last one, switch the t and the b and you will understand. All of the above are commonly used slang terms for breasts, but during pregnancy I certainly think that the terrific twosome are deserving of a name that denotes a larger, more useful image.
The enlargement effect that pregnancy has on your chest can be fun for women who haven't been particularly lucky in that department, but for blessed women like me even your husband can start to ask, "Dang, can't you strap those suckers down some kind of way?" Pre-pregnancy I was already well-endowed in the chest department. My short, five foot, two inch frame alone was already subject to jest from my family, as I am the shortest person in the household. Frank delights in calling me Little Bit, and both of my sisters call me Scrub, Shorty Doo Wop, and Midget. When we play the Dozens (a traditional African-American game of trying to out-tease each other), their favorite lines they use against me are, "You so short, you can hang glide off of a Dorito," or, "You so short, when you sit on the curb you can swing your legs." My favorite is, "You so short, you have to cuff your drawers." Add a set of size 36 C boobs on that frame and I was subject to even more teasing. My sisters, especially Chanel (the 18 year-old), would use my boobs as more ammo while we were participating in the dozens. She is good for saying things like, "At least you'll never drown, you have your own built-in floaties," and, "Be careful when you do jumping jacks, you might get two black eyes." Not that she has any room to talk about me, because as big-chested as I am, she is conversely and equally flat-chested.
Chanel has been my basis for comparison during my pregnancy. If you recall, Chanel had a son last July, and we have the exact same due dates, thereby making it easy for me to compare certain stages. So far, it seems like I am experiencing things a couple of months before she was, including the arrival of the Titty Fairy. If you haven't yet read The Girlfriend's Guide to Pregnancy, by Vicki Iovine, that is one book you shouldn't pass up on. One of the topics she discusses is the arrival of the Titty Fairy, the mystical and imaginary creature she holds responsible for the enlargement effects that pregnancy has on your breasts. Second to the growth of Chanel's belly, I was in awe at the growth of her chest. I was stunned to see her go from a size 34 B to a size 38 D in a matter of a couple of months. Mommy would say, "Geez, Kym, if Chanel's breasts grew that much and she was only a 34 B, imagine what's gonna happen to yours!" I always imagined that an increase in my chest size wouldn't be that bad, especially if I didn't have to worry about it until the last couple of months like Chanel. But unlike Chanel, my boobs grew exponentially as soon as I got the positive pregnancy test.
Between months three and four, I gained eight pounds, and I swear that half of it went straight to my chest. I outgrew my regular bras by the time I was three months, and the only decent support I could get came from my supply of sports bras. When even those didn't offer good control, I knew it was time to go shopping for maternity bras. My entry on DIPS mentions the weekend I went shopping for maternity clothes with Mommy and Frank, and on that same trip the first stop we made was a Hanes Her Way outlet store. Mommy and I found the maternity bra section and looked for a larger size. When Mommy suggested that I try on a size 40 D, I was dumbfounded because I was too stupid to think that my boobs had grown that much. So, we took one to the fitting room and I had Mom go in with me so she could help me determine if that was a good size or not. As soon as I strapped myself into that parachute of a bra, I heard the angels sing, I felt ten pounds lighter, and I could breathe easier. "YES, YES, THIS HAS TO BE HEAVEN," I thought. I stood in the mirror with my hands on my hips, admiring the new over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder, grinning from ear to ear. Mommy snapped me out of my reverie when she asked, "Do you want me to ask the saleslady if you can wear it out of the store?" I said in a scream-whisper, "NO WAY! She'll think I'm desperate!" Mom's simple reply was, "You are desperate." So she went to ask, and I stood in the dressing room a little embarrassed with my fingers crossed, hoping that I would in fact be able to wear it out of the store. When Mom came back in with an affirmative answer, I damn near jumped with happiness. Talk about simple pleasures.
A little more than a month after I spent 50 dollars on maternity bras, I have now outgrown those size 40 D tents, and I have a new issue even bigger than bigger boobs to worry about. I now have to worry about bigger leaky boobs. Actually, leaky ain't the word for it. It's more like flooded and inundated. It's not so bad during the day when I have a bra on, but as soon as I take it off, the thunder rolls and the flood comes rushing in. Even with a good bra, it is still more comfortable for me without one on, especially now that I am up to a 40 DD. I certainly never sleep in a bra, and now that I am leaking it is not uncommon for me (or Frank) to wake up awash in a puddle soon after falling asleep. I have now adjusted by sleeping on a bath towel. Can you imagine how big and full these things are going to be when my milk finally comes in? I think pretty soon the only support I will be able to get will come from metal plates and duct tape. I mean, really -- when I lie down on my back my neck disappears because my boobs roll back to my chin. Well, that's okay, because I know that this is all in preparation for my two rug rats. Yup -- just call me Mount St. Boobs like Chanel does. Of course, since she has no boobs to speak of, it's even more appropriate for me to call her Death Valley.