The Titty Fairy Pays Me A Visit

Breast cancer can be beatenBefore I’d gotten knocked up with Child Number One, I’d always been a solid B cup up top. Really, I didn’t care too much because I’d never had a whole lot of use for large chesticles in my twenty years on the planet. I didn’t pray to the Boobie Fairy that I would wake up one morning with a set of hooters like Pam Anderson, and if I could have gotten away with wearing no bra, I was really okay with that. I knew that boys liked boobs, and since I liked boys, I figured that I sort of liked boobs by proxy, but really, I didn’t pay them much mind. Besides, I thought, boys liked to fart into jars, too, and while I could appreciate that superficially, on the whole, I found that pretty disgusting.

Instant Boobs

About three minutes after that second line popped up on the home pregnancy test, I got a visit from the Titty Fairy. Overnight, I’d gone from sort of itty-bitty-titties to full-blown centerfold material. Under normal circumstances, I probably would have stayed home to play with them and admire how much better shirts now fit, but the slightest puff of air sent me into a shuddering spasm of pain, weeping and gasping for air. Wearing shirts was so torturous that I could barely leave the house, my every footfall marked with a rubbing ache that I could hardly bear. I had to clench my jaw shut so as to not scream in agony every time I went to the grocery store for more hot sauce and gummy bears.

I Loved My New Set

Every time I neared a mirror, though I turned into a peacock, preening and admiring my new sweater kittens and the way they perkily stood up and out as a nice solid D cup. My clothes fit better, my self-esteem, what hadn’t been wrecked by the ever-increasing numbers on the scale, that is, was sky-rocketing, and I felt hot. I fully understood now why women got boob jobs whereas before I’d always sort of rolled my eyes at them. I hadn’t really wanted to look like Barbie and I assumed that having large breasts–even perky silicone-filled ones–would be more hassle than they’d ever be worth. But no, these knockers, wow, I loved having them.

Like anything else, though, this elation was short lived. Because I am built with four inches of torso, my rapidly growing son exploded out of my abdomen giving me the look of a human daddy long-legs spider. All legs with a gigantic belly. Soon my rack was dwarfed by my baby belly. And shortly after that, my son was sprung from his prison and into the world.

My Kid Was Afraid Of My Boobs

I had every intention to nursing my baby son. I’d bought the requisite ugly snap-up nursing bra, the pump, the ice packs, the heat packs, the nipple cream and the hideous nursing cover all in anticipation that my son would take to nursing like, well, he was supposed to. I bided my time in the hospital after he was born trying to get him to latch on, waiting for my milk to come in, all in the hope that he would stop trying to get the hell away from my gigantic melons. It didn’t work. I mean it did: my milk came in, but my kid was afraid of my boobs. I’d blame him except how could you? They were bigger than his head.

Two Oranges In Tube Socks

My boobs, I was warned by all of my baby books, the nurses, my obstetrician, my mother, the gardening staff, my cousin, my aunt, the janitor, the lactation consultant, The Internet, and my sister-in-law, would disappear. Some of them tried to break the news to me gently, “They’re not yours to keep, Rebecca.” Others cackled at my misfortune as I grabbed my chest possessively, “You’re going to look like you have two oranges in tube socks where your titties were,” and yet others were simply beaten down by it, “Well,” they’d say mournfully, “plastic surgery is always an option.”

Boob Job?

Since I’d already added “tummy tuck” onto my list of elective procedures years before when I realized that the pot belly I’d sported since birth was genetic, I figured “boob job” might as well get tacked on there. I mean, if I was gonna go all out, I might as well go ALL OUT. So I went on my postpartum diet and slowly the weight came off, first in all of the places it didn’t matter: my fingers, my forearms, my feet and eventually from all of the places I cared about: my ass, my stomach and my hips. I waited, month after month, as I craved cupcakes and french fries and dutifully ran my ass off at the gym, for my Tribal Woman Boobies to emerge. The numbers on the scale crept downward and eventually they stopped.

I’d reached my pre-pregnancy weight.

My bra size still hadn’t changed. It looked like while I was never going to “breast feed those pesky sixty pounds away” like the La Leche League had sworn up and down that I was going to do, the Titty Fairy had landed and she had left me with a present: a brand new set of knockers. And they? Are fabulous.

If only the Tummy Tuck Fairy were so generous..

How have your sweater kittens changed over time? What would your ideal chesticles look like?

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45 comments

  1. Wow, I’m finally getting to this article…3 days later!

    I knew I was pregnant before I had even peed on the stick. My boobs were so sore and achey I couldn’t stand it. My nice perky C cup expanded to a REALLY full D…which I really didn’t like. It was a litlle too much for my frame.

    But 15 months later, I’m back to my original C and couldn’t be happier. Here’s to hoping this happens with future pregnancies as well, huh?

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