Honestly, I can't really believe I'm writing this blog post, for many reasons. But alas, me and my sad boobs are sitting here, writing you this blog post.
If you've been reading my blog over the years, you might remember this ode to my old breasts...
RELATED: A Letter To My Breasts
And sadly, a few years and another nursling later, not much has changed. In fact, my breasts have become more ballsack-like. Yes, you read that right. Try to contain your sudden urge to mount me. I know. I paint such an alluring picture, don't I? I'm a real artiste that way.
My husband insists that my breasts do not look like ballsacks, but I can see beyond the milk-filled facade. I know that in less than a year, these decievelying bouyant beauties are going to show their true colours and hang from my body like cold and rejected poached eggs. It's only a matter of time my friends.
I don't know what the hell happens to breast tissue after you breastfeed, and maybe it's not the same for everyone, but mine seems to have vanished into thin air.
And here's the thing: I don't want BIG boobs. I just want boobs that resemble...boobs and not ballsacks. Is that too much to ask? I'd rather not have to roll my breasts into my bra, y'know?
My friend (who is hilarious and awesome) told me that after nursing her second child she basically just wore band-aids for bras. I suppose it's cheaper, and a little Burlesque. Sorta? Just go with it.
*sigh*
I don't know. I doubt I'd ever actually "go under the knife" for a whole slew of reasons, but I will miss my former breasts after I'm done nursing my children. I guess this is why I'm glad my husband knew me when I was young. So he can close his eyes and remember my pre-children breasts. Unfortunately for me (and him) my husband has a terrible memory...
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