Pretty Shiny Things

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Once upon a time, these were my breasts. My glorious, full C-cup breasts. This was also the first time Ben saw me. Now you know why he asked for my hand in marriage. I didn’t get them until college. I also didn’t date until college (COINCIDENCE?!). After years of having next to nothing, I treasured them. Boyfriends worshipped them. Are you understanding how amazing my breasts were? I would get late ngiht text messages years later that mentioned my breasts. They received their own drunk dials, people. After Scout was born and they became engorged, it was practically laughable. I had grown to a DD in the years since meeting Ben, and when you get there you kind of don’t think BEYOND that. But, oh. They grew. Ben described them using words like “porn star” and “boob job.” It didn’t help matters than in the one La Leche meeting I attended I only heard the words “stay home topless.” For fear that I would have breastfeeding problems, I went around the house the first two weeks without a shirt on, allowing Scout to have constant access to them. And when you’re dealing with a post-partum body (STRETCH MARKS DO NO STOP GROWING JUST BECAUSE YOUR BABY IS OUT), these things become the only thing you are really proud of. I mean, besides being proud of that baby you pushed out without so much as an IV inside you. 38E. That is a real bra size. That is MY bra size. Yes, they do carry that in some department stores. No, they are not always sized correctly. And they will in no way lift and separate. Now that my milk supply has regulated itself, I’m not walking around with eight pound bowling balls as breasts. I stand in front of the mirror and wonder if my nipples have moved farther south, constanty pulling them towards my chin to remember the days of yore. A friend once mentioned that they could become the size of dinner plates, and I had THAT ringing in my head for months. But by my measurements (YES I MEASURED. That’s how paranoid I was) they have remained intact. So there’s that.

Once upon a time, these were my breasts. My glorious, full C-cup breasts.


This was also the first time Ben saw me. Now you know why he asked for my hand in marriage.


I didn’t get them until college. I also didn’t date until college (COINCIDENCE?!). After years of having next to nothing, I treasured them. Boyfriends worshipped them. Are you understanding how amazing my breasts were? I would get late ngiht text messages years later that mentioned my breasts. They received their own drunk dials, people.


After Scout was born and they became engorged, it was practically laughable. I had grown to a DD in the years since meeting Ben, and when you get there you kind of don’t think BEYOND that. But, oh. They grew.


Ben described them using words like “porn star” and “boob job.” It didn’t help matters than in the one La Leche meeting I attended I only heard the words “stay home topless.” For fear that I would have breastfeeding problems, I went around the house the first two weeks without a shirt on, allowing Scout to have constant access to them. And when you’re dealing with a post-partum body (STRETCH MARKS DO NO STOP GROWING JUST BECAUSE YOUR BABY IS OUT), these things become the only thing you are really proud of. I mean, besides being proud of that baby you pushed out without so much as an IV inside you.


38E. That is a real bra size. That is MY bra size. Yes, they do carry that in some department stores. No, they are not always sized correctly. And they will in no way lift and separate.

Now that my milk supply has regulated itself, I’m not walking around with eight pound bowling balls as breasts. I stand in front of the mirror and wonder if my nipples have moved farther south, constanty pulling them towards my chin to remember the days of yore. A friend once mentioned that they could become the size of dinner plates, and I had THAT ringing in my head for months.

But by my measurements (YES I MEASURED. That’s how paranoid I was) they have remained intact. So there’s that.