Bumps, Boobs, Breast-Feeding and Beyond ...

Many years ago, when my sister-in-law was beginning to develop, her mum (my Dutch mother-in-law) remarked as she was drying her after a bath, “Oh, look at your little mosquito bites”, referring to her newly budding bosoms.  My sister-in-law, after taking one look at her mum’s rather sizeable rack, replied “So, what bit you, an elephant?!”

And that’s a little bit how I feel about my 38C’s.  I went from gnat to elephant bites before Gok Wan could utter the word “Hooters.”

I breezed through life up until I was thirty, without a bra to my name.  I had less than mozzie bites and I was happy.  My wedding day was a bra-less affair.  No underwiring or digging straps for me - pert and perfect they were, under my lace bias cut dress.

Within four months of being married, I fell pregnant.  And, along with the Stork, came ‘the Boobie Fairy.’  Boy, does she know her stuff.  Within months I was sporting whoppers - even my lovely gay neighbour couldn’t take his eyes off them.  They had truly appeared from nowhere and been firmly fixed to my front.  People began to have conversations with them.

I became the butt of jokes from family and friends.  There’s nothing like a big-knockered woman for people to take the pee out of - it brings out their ‘Carry On’ side, I swear.  To suddenly see ‘Woman of no Breast’ turn into Raquel Welch seemed to be a cause for great hilarity.

Of course as the bump grew, the gazongas didn’t look quite so massive as it all became relative.  Everyone kept telling me I’d miss them when they were gone. As I was intending to breast feed, the doom-mongers took great joy in informing me that after I finished feeding I would be left with two wrung out tea-bags! Nice.

Baby popped out (well had to be sucked by the head actually, but that’s another story) and I was fortunate enough to be able to breast feed for a year.  I always said I would see how it went and I wasn’t going to make myself or my baby miserable but, for us, it worked.

It worked so well that I could actually have fed every baby in the neighbourhood and surrounding areas - I could express for England, feeding him and stocking up on bottle-loads for the freezer.  Which was just as well really, because he enjoyed his grub.  He took great pleasure in filling up, snacking, grazing and generally pigging out.  I became a ‘human dummy’ and, when I eventually ‘shut the milk shop’ on his first birthday, friends commented “Oh, that’s what he looks like!  We can see him now he’s out from under your top!”

And so the journey began to the predicted saggy tea-bags.  Actually, the wait began for the milk to dry up first.  My seemingly infinite supply continued to last for five years!  Finally, when my son was about six, I managed to have a bath without ‘leaking nozzles’!

Now that the milk was no longer keeping my melons artificially inflated, my tormentors returned with Round Two of “Flaccid PG Tips are just around the corner”.

So, I waited … and waited.  In some ways I was quite looking forward to having my flat chest back - I always think clothes hang better on a boyish figure.  Husband (being the perfect one he is) didn’t mind either way, saying he’d had the best of both worlds.

We continued to wait and … nothing happened.  The 38C’s remained there defiantly.  I resigned myself to the fact that I would never be boyish again.  The ‘baby’ is now 15 years old and the boobies are still there - kind of given up hope of them ever packing their bags and decamping now.

Now, don’t get me wrong.  I’m grateful that what I have is healthy, so I’m not moaning or griping, but I guess it’s just that we’re never satisfied.  When I had just nipples, I wanted a handful.  Now I have enough to require hammocks, I want to go back to my pre-mummy figure.

I’ve got poker straight hair and I wish for curls.  I have no hips but I’m told this is the price I pay for having good legs - hips fill a dress so sexily though, don’t they?  My mother thinks she’s too skinny and yet I have friends who work themselves to a frazzle to keep the weight off.

What’s wrong with us?  Why can’t we just love the skin we’re in and get on with it?

Warts and boobies and all!

Diary of a Mummy Misfit is available on Amazon for Kindle.  Now also in paperback at Lulu.