A Love Letter to my Tits

A friend once declared you 'French Tits'. Perky, chic, and the perfect handful. Ooh la la, indeed.


It was a badge I wore with pride, after years of hating that you weren’t bigger. After teenage years spent in push up bras, the straps pulled so tight that the fastening was almost at the nape of my neck, I felt free. I began to love the fact that I could wear what I liked, go braless whenever I wanted, and I had none of the physical woes that my larger chested friends complained about. I didn’t need to accommodate a damn thing, and my god did it feel good.


That being said, when I found out I was pregnant, I’ll admit, after the initial reactions of ohmigod excitement, swiftly followed by whatthefuck dread, my mind drifted back to you. I was going to feel what having big boobs was like! Not the modest b cup boys wedged together with careful underwear trickery, but legitimate, actual boobs! And they appeared pretty quickly, much to my utter delight.


FIRST TRIMESTER

Wrong, wrong, wrong. I was wrong, this sucks, stop this madness, I want to get off, etc. Look at my boobs, you die. Touch my boobs, and your entire Facebook friends list dies along with you. I DO NOT CARE FOR THESE BOOBS. You really bloody hurt! You’re bigger, sure, but at what cost? It’s not all that noticeable under clothes anyway. If my nipples were any more sensitive I’d have to rename them Donald Trump and Piers Morgan. All you’re really doing is hurting me, and making me look like I’ve eaten all of the damn pies, because you’ve popped up before my bump has sprouted. So CHEERS FOR THAT, LADS.


SECOND TRIMESTER

Ok, you listened, you’ve calmed yourselves. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I caught an accidental glimpse of you in the taps while I was in the bath, and I’ll be honest, I felt like punching you HARD, but we’re through that now. You’ve made some adjustments, but you’ve slowed them down, and they’re smaller pills to swallow this time around. I’ve rewarded you with some new bras, a far cry from the adorable bralets I had become accustomed to, but it’s cool. I got you b- what the FUCK KIND OF SHITTERY IS THIS NOW?

You’re leaking? I’m 23 weeks and you think NOW is the time to start practising for when the kid arrives? Mates, I’m all for preparedness, but this seems a little extreme, we’re only just past the halfway mark? Is this because I’ve started doing up the nursery, and preparing stuff on my end? Guys, that needs doing now while I’m still agile, your part can wait! Like, well done and all, but ugh now I have to wear a bra all the time because you’re ruining t-shirts. I buy you some bamboo breast pads, and we continue on our journey.


THIRD TRIMESTER

It’s my own fault really, I dared to work in theatre. I should have KNOWN that me wearing a limiting costume and being on stage for long periods of time, dancing and whatnot, would mean that you’d really up the ante on the whole liquidation thing. I’m now sat, squeezing you hourly, just to relieve some of the immense pressure I’m feeling. What a year to be in a show where the entire cast are in one dressing room, by the way. I suppose this is excellent practise for birth and postpartum life with not a shred of dignity to be found. And I’m excellent birth control for anyone who happens to ask me what I’m doing, at least.


You’ve hit me with a new surprise at week 30. Those all too familiar streaks that I’ve found on my inner thighs of late. Fanning out from my nips, like little rays of sunshine. But I think we’re starting to work with one another now- you’ve agreed to keep it to the underside of my breasts, the side that nobody except the kid and the bloke will see. Big of you, I suppose.


And I suppose the milking thing isn’t so bad. We’ve been able to collect a load of grub for the kid, so we’re nicely prepared for the arrival of the year. It only took us 2 days to collect 15 syringes of that liquid gold- we only stopped because we ran out of syringes. No awkward massaging to encourage flow- you sprung into action like a pair of fire hydrants in a New York heatwave. So, thanks.

We can continue to work together to do what you’ve been meant for all along. Ever since those teenage days of utterly loathing you, you’ve been waiting for this. All we ever want is to find our true purpose in this life, and put it into action, and I can’t help but feel happy for you that you’re getting to live out yours, after all this time spent with an ungrateful sod like me.


So let’s kick this pig, and finish the fuck out of this pregnancy. I promise not to get too pissed off at you if you’re sore, or if the kid doesn’t like you. And I might mourn the loss of those French Tits. I’m definitely going to swear at you, complain about you, and I might hate you a bit, but I’ll get over it. Promise.


Love,


Me.

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