I’ve wanted boobs since I was 11 years old. My best friend at the time blossomed like a glorious rose, and I eagerly and patiently awaited my moment in the breast-filled sun. I knew they’d come – and I didn’t mind waiting. I mean, 11 is early. It’s okay if I’m like, 13 or something.
13 rolls around, I’ve chosen my high school course load and while my eyebrows seemed to have no trouble expanding into view – my chest was still just nipples on flesh. I bought a bra though, ‘cause I’m optimistic like that.
I chalked it up to the fact that I’m a late bloomer. Some people don’t fill in until they’re like 15 or 16! I like to take my time, maybe my body is the same way. Again I waited patiently and eagerly.
The day comes that I walk across the stage and accept my high school diploma. Never once did I lose hope. A lot of people don’t get boobs until their second year in university! And again I waited.
It wasn’t until I was 24 that I resigned to the fact that they weren’t coming. I accepted my fate as a person with little bitty boobies. And honestly, it was okay. There’s a lot of perks to small boobs that I acknowledge and appreciate. But man, I just really love boobs. I am as bad as a 15 year old boy. I stare at them longingly… Maybe one day I’ll buy some. I’m not sure it’s the same though… I don’t know.
All this considered, I hope you can appreciate the level of joy I felt when I noticed that my preggo boobs were coming in. Slowly but surely my tiny titties became little mounds, and then a full handful of flesh, omg they can TOUCH each other!! Eventually I had to go buy a new bra! B cup. I’m so legit.
Now, as exciting as these boobs were (are). I have been struggling with my body image quite a bit since becoming pregnant. I don’t know about the rest of you women – but I have yet to feel ‘pregnant’. So far, I feel really fat and just a general ‘unwellness’ between the fatigue, nausea and plethora of additional symptoms. Basically I’m feeling like a chubby piece of garbage that’s not allowed to drink alcohol or have fun.
So my poor (and amazing) husband has been managing my mental well-being as I battle with my body image. I ask him if he notices the weight gain. How fat I look. “Is it bad? Like… how bad is it? My butt is bigger too! Is that normal? Should my butt be bigger?”
“Honestly babe, I don’t really notice it.”
I knew my husband was smart when I married him. I will be completely candid in saying that I have a painfully low tolerance for stupidity so I would never be able to spend my life with someone that wasn’t cognitively sound. However, it’s been more recently that I’m coming to appreciate just how intelligent my husband is.
No matter how much I pressed looking for an honest answer (I didn’t want an honest answer) – he didn’t budge. Not once has my husband commented on my size, weight gain, or flabby exterior. NOT ONCE.
But my boobs?
“BRIN! LOOK! I HAVE BOOBS!!! CAN YOU SEE THEM?? THEY’RE BIGGER RIGHT?? THEY CAN EVEN TOUCH EACH OTHER NOW!!!”
“WHOA! YES, that’s awesome! They TOTALLY are! Yummy.”
[And then insert things that happen when you mutually admire your boobs.]
Slow clap for my husband e’rrbody. He’s a brilliant, brilliant man.