Boob Takeover

I am feeling conflicted about writing this, but I think it’s time to share it. Part of the confliction, I think, is that I don’t feel right making fun of my situation. It doesn’t really feel good to laugh about any of it, even if it is amazing, ridiculous, or anything else good. I mean, I had a baby. I made it through childbirth. Hubby and I have survived, even came out better than before, those are good things. But I don’t have a baby for it, and I really don’t know what went wrong, so I don’t find the success and fun in them I should.

However, some things just can’t be contained.

Like my boobs.

My boobs got enormous. Huge. The doctor warned me, as I was sitting in the hospital bed, holding Wyatt and wondering what to do next. “The milk will come in. It’s kind of cruel, but it’s nature,” she said. “Wear a tight sports bra, the tightest one you have, don’t stimulate the nipples-I mean, don’t even let the water in the shower hit them-and it will go away in a few days.” I still wasn’t prepared. I mean, I was focusing on some other things, but still, I know she warned me and I just wasn’t ready. They literally blew up. Spilling-out-the-sides-and-top-of-my-full-coverage-sports-bra-blew up. I still can’t get over it. They looked like Heidi Montag-Pratt-whatever’s from The Hills after her full body makeover, and she paid for those. I’m talking cantaloupes, round and pert and firm just like ‘em. I know I can’t do it justice, just writing about it—even telling someone about it in person with props and hand motions will never do them justice. Now Hubby is the only one who can attest what is possible in my chest department. But I have proof that I can make milk for a baby…and that my skin is verrrrry stretchy. So at least that’s good.