I’ve reached the point in this pregnancy where my breasts have taken over my life. They are, in a word, enormous. I look at myself in the mirror in the morning and laugh at how out of proportion I suddenly look. When I ask GTB about it, he wipes the drool from his chin and then responds with something like, “Yep, you’re a pretty booby girl right now!”<\/p>\n
I catch co-workers stealing glimpses of them. I find strangers staring at them. I keep knocking stuff over with them. When I was playing “Where’s your nose?” with my friend K’s 18-month-old a couple of weeks ago, he turned around and grabbed my left boob. K said, “I guess we’re playing ‘Where’s Girl’s boob?” I shrugged. Who could blame the poor kid? They’re that big. <\/p>\n
Yesterday morning, I realized I’ve outgrown all of my bras. I now have that really ugly and uncomfortable problem of split boob, where half my tit sits in the bra and the other half hangs over the top. So tonight, GTB and I are going bra shopping. He is, of course, stoked. Despite my best efforts to convince him that I’m looking for large, cotton, comfortable maternity bras, he has images of Victoria’s Secret in his head. He’s going to be so disappointed when I steer him away from Frederick’s of Hollywood and toward Motherhood Maternity.<\/p>\n
The other unfortunate thing about rapidly growing jugs is that they itch. Uncontrollably. For hours at a time. If you can enlighten me about a way to subtly scratch your breasts at work, please do. Because the whole “Oh, I need this pen, across my desk, that forces my forearm to brush against my own chest, three or four times in rapid succession” is gettting a little old. Plus, it’s not that effective.<\/p>\n