Boobs, tits, knockers, jugs, hooters, fun bags, the twins, white pointers, cans. There are many names for women’s breasts, but once you have a baby they take on new meaning. No longer are they the source of fun for men, a fashion accessory or a couple of firm (if you are lucky) friends. They become Milk Cannons, sustenance for the critter that will slide down your birth canal and into your heart.
I have a friend who once nicknamed me Mount Everbreast, and those who know me will appreciate why. You see, I was not at the back of the queue when boobs were being handed out, I have inherited a sizeable DD bust from a long line of big breasted women.
So, when I got pregnant the jokes began and everyone was having a laugh warning me about how massive they were going to get.
You know those pregnancy symptoms I spoke about in my last update? Well the ones I was looking out for here were darkened and enlarged nipples and increased cup size.
It started off quite subtly, a little extra fullness, maybe half a cup size and certainly nothing to cause alarm, but I went out and got a few maternity bras to house my new form.
Halfway through the pregnancy they started to look a bit wrong. Mt Everbreast now had a big brown skull cap instead of a dainty pink fascinator. That’s right, my areolas were quite literally huge, like satellite dish huge. My boobs were pumped up, covered in blue veins and ready for their new career. The Milk Cannons had arrived.
Once the Womb Raider was born I had about 67 different midwives grapple with my monstrous cannons trying to teach me and her how to breastfeed. It’s one of the most natural things on earth to feed a baby, you just wave your humongous nipple near their tiny little face and they grab onto it right?
Not really. I discovered that Mount Everbreast was not easily tackled for a reason, that it would take guts and perseverance to conquer this new challenge.
Enter the Raider with a fistful of determination and a relentless energy that would make Bear Grylls look lazy…
Over the next few days I watched as my nipples disintegrated slowly into chapped, cracked and bleeding shadows of their former selves as the Womb Raider feasted merrily every one and a half hours.
It was becoming obvious why, back in the day, mothers had wet nurses, this was bloody hard work! Perhaps I could advertise locally for a willing helper? “Wanted. Kind-hearted female with sizable milk cannons to help feed relentless infant. Experience essential.”
I remembered seeing photos of Salma Hayek feeding a starving baby on a goodwill trip to Sierra Leone and began wondering if she might be available to help a sister out.
On second thought, Salma would be a bad choice. She’s The Husband’s fantasy celebrity and I’m almost certain he would run off into the sunset with the buxom beauty, leaving me and my overworked Milk Cannons in a cloud of expensive perfume.