The this is your life of my boobs…
Age 11 I was desperate for them, sock stuffing and all that jazz awaiting the arrival of what I felt would be the holy grail of boyfriend snaring equipment…
It turns out I was right, basically the only point in this woman’s life that big boobs were useful was indeed to snare a man (albeit one that is into boobs, apparently there are those out who aren’t, I can’t say I’ll ever get the male fascination with them but hey ho). I am lucky I got the boobs as at 5 foot and a fag end I was never going to nab myself a leg man, and my bottom has never been at the peachy/ hoochy end of the scale more in the middle ground, a non offensive non attention grabbing bottom. But here is where big boob uses ended for me… (unless I get into the kinky side of things and I don’t think that is really required, a simple Google session can give you a list of alternative uses for a pair of whammers) until it came to breastfeeding…
Suddenly pregnant with child #1 I felt like my large assets had found their actual calling in life – and my they were preparing for it, going from a standard DD/E cup to an H/I cup during my pregnancy. Anyone reading this and thinking wow I’d love boobs that big, don’t be fooled. It was certainly a case of quantity over quality. They were grotesque in their size, swollen looking, like an ordinance survey map with purple veins all over them.
Then the boy arrived, not in the way I’d hoped, by emergency c-section in the end. For that reason my body didn’t quite click the tit switch on. He latched in special care almost instantly, unbeknown to me he didn’t feed. That we would only discover days later when he was loosing weight and loosing his latch all to regularly. Days of advice followed. We were in a busy teaching hospital, though no fault of their own I didn’t see the same Midwife twice, I didn’t get the same advice twice for that reason. I pumped before feeding, I pumped after feeding, I feed had a rest and then pumped before cup feeding him first then trying to feed. My brain was scrambled. Such was my obsessivness I was starving my child.
This obsession had been fuelled by the notion that birth and breast feeding would be easy because the word ‘natural’ is attached to them. Its nature I’m made to do it right? What a dick. Thing is its not natural for everyone at first. My boobs had very much been my own for 28 years before this point. I’d done as I pleased with them. Among other things they were a source of pleasure, a wooing mechanism as mentioned above. This sudden change of use was unnerving and for me wasn’t something that came naturally.
I wish someone had told me before hand that breastfeeding is hard, that it will hurt, feels weird, that more people than you would care to imagine are likely to manhandle your tit into your newborns mouth in a bid to get you to achieve your goal to feed. The size and colour of your nipples are perfectly normal topics of conversation. You’ll feel weird doing it in front of people at first, you’ll wrangle with clothes as you try to whip your tit out and keep your tummy tucked away. Its a learning curve – the biggest I’ve ever been on really – but it’s worth it, stick with it and it can feel natural and easy.
A few months into Motherhood and I was whipping my whammers out left right and centre. Breast feeding is the slutty girls best friend; you can leave your house in a rush, late and forgetting nappies but you can’t forget your tits! You don’t have to get out of bed to feed your baby. No trecking downstairs in the middle of the night; I enjoyed nothing more than lounging around in bed nursing my baby boy, both of us in a sleepy haze. At 11 months our journey ended, as if someone had turned the tap off. One day he just decided he wanted a bottle/ beaker not me.
Second time around and naively I thought I’ve got this. Nope. Again what a dick. No chance, baby #2 was tongue tied so that was another arduous journey. Whipping your large tit out for feeding is one challenge when trying to remain discrete. Whipping it out and then putting a nipple shield on is never discrete. We got there in the end, and whilst flying to Australia my boobs became the most useful thing we packed.
And now, with the end of my journey arrived a saggy pair of deflated boobs, mildly drooping an understatement, forget a pencil I can hold a pencil case under mine (a pint glass on special occasions). I’d love a smaller pair, a neat perky pair that look nice in a bandeau top under floaty summer dresses. But hey ho, you win some you loose some. The marvellous thing for me about becoming a Mum is the body confidence it has given me. Don’t get me wrong I’d still love to have a body like a Victoria’s Secret Model. I just realise there are more important things in life than being skinny; And this saggy body with its deflated bits has grown & kept two tiny humans alive so what’s a few war wounds between pals?
Boobs to it all, I can work with what I’ve got.
N.B. I would just like to say I’m aware not every woman is afforded the opportunity to breast feed, indeed not every woman wants to. When it comes to breast feeding it is something I wanted to do and was lucky enough to be able to do; but my stance on it is ‘FED IS BEST’ boob, bottle, half and half, however you feed them that is the absolute best. Its about keeping them alive at the end of the day not about the vessle you serve it in.