They're Real, And They're Not All That Spectacular

My boobs? Are gargantuan.

And they itch.

Which means, sadly, that my enjoyment of them is limited. Gigantic boobs are highly over-rated, if you ask me, and all the more so if they are both gigantic and itchy. They cause back pain, and skin discomfort, and I'll be damned if I can find a bra in which to cram these things that both a) contains them properly, and b) doesn't exascerbate the itchiness with crap like underwire (a torture device if there ever was one) or elastic or lace or, well, anything that presses against the skin. Which leaves one with giant cotton nursing bras, which, you know, don't exactly make one feel sex-AY.

(My ass? Also massive. But it is one of the very great mercies of Mother Nature and whatever gods are responsible for buttocks that the ass is located on one's back side. Where one cannot see it, unless one contorts oneself in front of a mirror, which one is not inclined to do when one has ballooned to the size of a baby whale. So, no, I do not spend a great deal of time reflecting upon the size of my ass. I just pretend that it's not there. ANYWAY.)

Remember these? NOT AS BIG AS THE NEW ONES, oh my hell.

The first time around the pregnancy and nursing block, the massive tits were a novelty. Oooh, look at these! A novelty that wore off as soon as there was a nipple-chomping infant latched to them, but still: there was a period of time, albeit short, during which I thought that they were pretty awesome. This, of course, was also a time during which I clung to the belief that they would just, you know, stay that way permanently, or that if they weren't destined to remain in a state of partum robustness, that they would just bounce right back to their regular perky 34B selves. This was a belief that was, of course, shattered not long after Wonderbaby weaned - and one that shattered devastatingly - but it was nice while it lasted. This time, I don't have the luxury of regarding my boobies through rose-coloured glasses: I note their massiveness and am immediately confronted by the fact that they will deflate. And that, I am sure, will not be pretty.

So: big, itchy and doomed to a tube-sock future. This sucks. What's a vain and uncomfortable pregnant woman to do?

Seriously: anyone got any good leads on pregnancy-safe boob moisturizers? Jumbo-sized bras without scratchy bits that aren't too ugly? Space-age titty technology that lifts and separates and restores mammary beauty? Anyone, anyone? PLEASE?

Help me. I pay in chocolate.

Probe Me Gently

During the pregnancy that produced the Wonderbaby, I became accustomed very quickly to the never-ending - and wholly ignoble - prodding and poking that attends being pregnant. How much time can one woman spend on her back on an examination table with her feet shoved into stirrups and someone's hand up her hoo-ha? Quite a lot, actually. And you learn very quickly to not complain, because, hey, they're just looking after you and the baby. So. You just lay back and try to think of anything other than how it is humanly possible for one gloved hand to fit all the way up there. And you try to be grateful. Because - have I said this already? - they're just taking care of you and the baby.

This time around, I'm finding it more difficult to be blah-zay about the transvaginal examinations - and, if I might add, the incessant demand for blood (we'd just like you to go back to the lab AGAIN, for just a few more blood tests, all right? NO. NO. NOT ALL RIGHT). Maybe it's because I'm less anxious about the mechanics of this pregnancy - I know that he's in there, and if they can hear his heart beating, isn't that good enough? - that I have a lower tolerance level for these investigative violations of my person. Maybe it's because I've gone through enough - once they've stuck a big-assed needle through your belly to determine whether or not your baby is facing severe disabilities, you're pretty much done - and that I believe, accordingly, somewhere deep down, that I'm already well paid up on my pregnancy-discomfort dues. Or maybe I've just become a bigger baby in the time since Wonderbaby was born. Whatever the case, I'm having trouble hacking the medical side of pregnancy this time around. So much so that I almost passed out twice yesterday - once during one of those deeply unpleasant transvaginal probes, and once during the umpteenth round of bloodletting.

Which, you know, doesn't do much for my maternal self-esteem, nor for my sense of myself as a functioning grown-up (especially not when the lab-technicians/blood-letters get all finger-waggy on me for going dizzy on them without warning. Like I know when I'm about to fall over. Please. If I knew, I wouldn't do it.) I tell myself that I'm just that much less worried about this pregnancy, especially since the events of early winter, and that I consequently feel less supportive of continual probing investigations into the pregnancy. But in my more truthful moments, I think that I've been worn down by motherhood and pregnancy-while-parenting-a-toddler and I am therefore just that much more sensitive, which is to say, much more intensely wussy.

It's just that, you know, I don't want anyone else poking at me or prodding me or making me feel dizzy, whether by sticking needles in me or by running around my legs in tiny little circles screeching wheeeeeeee I go round-and-round I go round-and-round wheeeee! I'm quite full up on that already, thanks. And while the little person doing round-and-round is adorable, the white-coated doctors and surgical-glove wearing lab technicians are not, so there's no pay-off.

Just let me hear the heartbeat, then give me some chocolate and send me home to put my feet up. Oh, yeah - and stop sticking your hands up my nether regions. Unless you really are going to pony up with that chocolate. Then we can talk.

If Your Child Farts In A Forest, And You Laugh, Will Anybody Hear It And Judge You?

So, you are at a cafe with your two-year old - who is sitting, quietly and sweetly, sipping the warm milk that she refers to as "coffee' - when she blows a loud, ripply fart.

Oh! she exclaims. I make a noise out my bum!

And you laugh.

And she asks, quite reasonably, under the circumstances: that funny?

And you say, no, sweetie. Just say 'excuse me,' please, when you make noises from your bottom.

But she persists. THAT FUNNY?

At the next table, two older ladies are watching and listening closely.

What are you supposed to say? It IS funny. But you're juvenile, and you don't want your daughter to grow up to be juvenile, and you certainly don't want her going to daycare and announcing that she can make noises out her bum and then doing her best Jim Carrey imitation. You don't want that at all.

So you contain your giggle, and lie. No, it's not meant to be funny. Mommy's being silly.

And then she farts again and exclaims S'CUSE ME MAKE NOISE OUT MY BUM. And you laugh out loud, spitting a little latte onto the table as you do.


You're not going to be very good at this whole 'raising cultured children' thing, are you?