“GO Crater!!!!!” my friends yelled from the grandstands. I’m sure the judges thought they were nuts. I tuned them out and kept jumping (well, my pony did the actual jumping). I can’t remember how long I had that nickname, but it was a long time. It didn’t really bother me, I thought it was funny. After all, it was true. Well, ok, I didn’t have craters instead of boobs. I just didn’t have any boobs.
My friend gave me an “Itty Bitty Titty Club” card once. I still remember the silly poem on the back:
Itty Bitty soft and pretty, little breasts make better chests. I carried that little card around in my wallet for years.
But then I came to Australia. I don’t know if there are steroids or growth hormones or something in the chicken here, but suddenly, I had boobs. I left an A, came back a C. Sure, I’d put on a bit of weight while here. I suppose that’s what happens when you were so fussy that you lived off of cheese pizza, macaroni and cheese and turkey hot dogs. Then you pull the stick of out your bum and start trying new things and realise hey, it’s not too bad. Plus, this country has Tim Tams. And cheesy nuggets, and my host mum Linda’s chef class cooking. I lost my Australia pudge, but lucky for me, my boobs stayed. I still remember my very first C-cup bra. White with polka dots and convertible straps.
When I got pregnant, my boobs got even bigger. Or maybe they just got sore, I don’t know. They definitely got even bigger when I started breastfeeding. Especially if Hannah didn’t wake overnight and I woke up in a puddle of milk and they were rock hard.
But now, breastfeeding is over, I’m not pregnant, and the chicken just doesn’t seem to be doing it’s job. I suppose I thought they’d just go back to their pre-pregnancy size. That seemed logical. But no, that was not to be. Instead, when I wear my bra, no longer is it filled by my boobies. Now, fabric hangs down below my boobs, with nothing to hold it up, nothing to keep it in place. I move my arm and my bra pretty much goes up to my neck. I hunch a little bit and the straps fall down to my elbows.
“What’s going on, your bra is way too big for you?” Aaron said to me the other day. That was the straw that broke the camels back. I was kind of hoping my MIA boobies would suddenly run back to me, happy and excited from their vacation, ecstatic about being reunited with me.
“My boobies shrank,” I said with a sad look on my face.
“Why don’t you get some new bras?” Hm…good idea.
So that’s what I did today. I went bra shopping. I didn’t trust myself to figure out my new, smaller, sadder size. I went to Bras ‘n things and got fitted. I am now (sigh, gasp, sad face) an 8B. Or (because that is nearly impossible to find) I could also go for the 10A. Ten A?????????!!!!!!!!!!?????? I thought maybe a 10B, only 1 size smaller, that wouldn’t be so bad, but TWO SIZES SMALLER??! What happens when I have another baby? Will I turn into an 8AAA? And then what if I have 2 more babies, or twins? Then I really will be Crater.
I didn’t mind not having boobs. But then I got some, and I really liked them. And now I would really like them back. They didn’t even stick around for 10 years. 😦
Oh, and I tried on a 10A in the store, and it pains me to say this, but it was a little big. Not around, but in the cup. That’s just sad. At least an 8B sounds better (we’ll just pretend the the actual cup size isn’t actually smaller than a 10A. I know, bra sizes are confusing.). Before today, I didn’t even know they made size 8 bras. Sigh….
Mommy Adventures 