Man, that last post was way too serious. It felt good, it was a bit cathartic (as they always are), but it's time to have a little fun again.
Today we shall discuss boobies, courtesy of my first-born. The *change* has begun - it all started once upon a time with a need for deodorant, then the shaving of the legs, and finally onto buying bras because where there was once nothing, now there is something. Not much, just enough that it's time... Duh duh DUHHHHHHH...
My poor little dear doesn't know what she's in for. Physically she is my clone, a carbon copy of the string bean I was soooooo many years ago. I was long, lanky, skinny, gawky, and Kim-will-never-amount-to-anything-in-the-boob-department FLAT.
When I hit puberty I put on about twenty pounds every school year, filling out into the womanly shape I was destined to embody, with the exception of my boobies (or buttons, as we like to call them when they're tiny).
Then it happened out of nowhere. When I was about fourteen years old I woke up one day and my buttons had transformed into watermelons. They were huge and I was mortified. M.O.R.T.I.F.I.E.D. There was no "Embrace your breasts, they are womanly and beautiful." Instead I received the advice of "Wear shoulder pads, they will make 'em look smaller."
I didn't know what to do with the aliens that quickly inhabited my chest - I was an athlete, in track and volleyball. Nothing like massive frolicking ta-tas to distract the cheering section. And I was a good little Mormon girl, so pure and chaste I felt dirty at the mere thought that someone might catch a glimpse of the two Goodyear Blimps en route, not that they were difficult to spot.
I don't even know what my bra size was. I was so embarrassed about how huge I was that I wore bras entirely too small. Two bras at a time. A little guidance and a proper-fitting brassiere would have done wonders for my self-esteem, but I was left to figure shit out for myself and I failed miserably.
After I had Amanda and became engorged with milk I had to special order my nursing bras. I was a 36H. Yes, you read that correctly I WAS A FUCKING 36H, as in Holy shit those are HUGE!!!!
Shortly after I finished breastfeeding I had an epiphany: breast reduction.
I had great insurance through my work which paid for 100% of the procedure with the exception of a $15 copay for my initial consultation. Those puppies were reduced a pound each and I was, and still am, ecstatic with the results. My husband was so not happy with me. I guess he had a thing for tits that hung to the waistline and swung like oranges in pantyhose, 'cause that's where mine had settled.
I feel that my hooters are now the size they should be, and they fit me perfectly. Not one regret. One day when Amanda wakes up with freakishly humongo funbags hanging from her chest, I will not suggest ways to hide them and pretend they aren't there. She will be assured they are absolutely perfect, and I will be more than happy to take her shopping for a bra that makes her feel sexy and proud.
And as for those shoulder pads...they can go fuck themselves.