This blog entry is about boobs. If you can't handle it, you shouldn't be on the internet, home to many, many, and many more boobs. But more than boobs, this is about bras. It is about the bras that could fit me properly, if only I had them.
See, first the baby comes. Then your breasts blow up like their pregnant. They get hard and pornographically huge. Then, after you make some money selling photos of them (say for the first nine months), they shrink. And not back to their former shape. They shrink into a new formation, with a gracious nod of acceptance towards the powers of gravity.
Then, you have another baby. You think you're a D or maybe a DD and once you were a 36, but now it seems like your rib cage has enlarged (presumably to allow you to scream LOUDER at your toddler; isn't nature amazing?) to something like a 40, and no bra you have ever acquired comes close to doing anything useful with those puppies.
So what am I supposed to do? They keep changing! Every nursing bra I have is ripped. (You know, the baby clawing at me for more....) The underwire is beginning to escape from certain other bras. (Oh, yeah, that feels good in my sternum.) And, in yet others, the little metal clasps have gone creative on me, taking on new, impossible to clasp, directions.
My husband is convinced I am a hippie. But it can't be so. If I were a hippy, I wouldn't care about a bra. But I do. I want a bra. I really want a bra for my two little piggies. And I want it to fit. And lift. And NOT break. And Last. Gee, now that I think of it, I feel the same way about most of the people in my life, including my husband.