Feed Bags

I can’t seem to help myself.   It’s almost like seeing a gruesome train wreck or car accident.  I find myself immovable and in complete and total awe.   There are a few occasions when my husband walks into the bathroom and sees me standing their shell-shocked and just as quickly as they caused my paralysis with my mouth agape, my husband stops mid-step completely immovable.  His eyes begin to bulge much like those of the carton characters who usually see something they’ve been thirsting for and BAM!, there it is in abundance, a temptation, a desire.   I usually come to my senses right about this time and raise my head to catch a glimpse of him, a small smile spreading across his face.  

“They’re huge!” he says excitedly still not taking a step towards me, but unable to really look up from my chest to meet my eyes.   I roll my eyes and then quickly cover myself again.   I mean what’s the point in getting him excited when he can’t touch them?   Why would I torture him with that?

My feed bags, or breasts, as I like to call them have started to become my nuisance.   For starters, I’m dealing with eleven weeks now of a soreness that is not even possible to describe.   It’s sheer torture just to get a bra on and once that’s on and has been actively providing support all day, they hurt even more in the evenings when I shed my bra.  That nice supporting ledge of underwire beneath them has disappeared and gravity takes over, dropping those babies only a couple of centimeters, but the pain reverberates throughout my breasts from the nipple all the way to the chest.   It’s crazy!   I almost dread taking off a bra as much as I dread trying to squeeze into one.  I have bras that no longer fit me and just to provide myself with some level of support I’m wearing sports bras to work!   Lord, knows I’m not able to really use the sports bras for their original design…..my running.   I attempted to run approximately two weeks ago and I quickly understood why there are no large chested women on the marathon circuits.   Fortunately mine don’t seem to be so huge that they’re smacking me in the face (there’s always an upside somewhere).  It doesn’t seem to matter what level of support I have for these puppies,  each time my foot hits the pavement on my much slower runs I feel my breasts rise in pain and then fall again with that same resounding ache.   It’s immense at times.  So, my running has taken a back seat.  I have now downgraded to brisk walks.   And don’t worry, I’m scheduling a bra fitting session to find some relief. 

So, my husband gets excited each time he sees them.   I have to explain that it’s not possible to so much as brush up against them.   He asks why, so I try to explain to him with something that would be equal in pain to him…..a swift knee to the groin.   Once I’ve explained that, he’s really gracious about stepping back, but not before asking if it’s possible for us to keep my feed bags at their current size….FOREVER. 

I understand the importance of our breasts and the important nutrients and the wonderful bonding experience they provide with our children, but I have to admit, I’m not a big fan of them getting larger.   They’ve become the side-effect of pregnancy I despise the most.   I can no longer sleep on my chest, I can no longer run, and my poor husband can only look and not touch.   It’s just an evil, evil necessity of pregnancy.


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