Fair warning – I’m about to talk about my boobs. But not in the “oh I love my boobs and here’s a picture!” sort of way I suppose an isolated few among you would appreciate. I’m going to talk about my boobs in a way that might make someone rethink life choices. Or at least trying to get frisky for a good one to two hours.
Ladies (and perhaps the pregnant-man-person from Seattle?), I need some reassurance. Cuz my boobs… they be flat.
It’s deflate-gate up in here. And I don’t mean this deflate-gate:
No I mean this kind of deflate:
No wait – this is sagging. Ugh I’m just making myself more upset.
I had a baby last year! Surprise! He was a bit of a surprise to us too – we have nicknamed him “Dollar Beer Night”. It’s quite an ironic turn of events, given what we went through to get his brother.
Little teeny tiny Luke was born at a delicate 10 lbs, 3 oz – with an appetite to match. I breastfed exclusively while on maternity leave. Then mixed breast and formula until about 9+ months, until I stopped a couple of months ago. Emotional guilt trip and connection withdrawal commence – as did the gradual transition from “just left Party City” balloons to “five days after the fiesta and you can sit on these bad boys and they still won’t pop” balloons.
Sexy, right? Yeah baby.
I do not remember how long it took the Ladies to return to any amount of poof after kid #1. Frankly, I wasn’t packing a lot of heat in that department in the first place (unlike everywhere else – thanks DNA) and I really need all the poof I can get. Is it worse after kid #2? What am I looking at here – months? Years? Or off-strip Las Vegas showgirl, forever?