Tag Archives: huge boobs

Finally Hit Puberty!

I was at dinner the other night with my old pal, J.G.  We went to Korean BBQ and ate like total pigs. As I was leaning over the table to pick up a perfectly cooked piece of short rib to stuff into my face he looked up at me and said, “well, it’s nice to see that you have gone through puberty.” I looked down at the boobs that have mercifully  grown on my chest and smiled and asked him to pass the special kimchi.

My newly huge bewbs. 34D so far, up from a 34B and growing. I'll have to hit up another one of my girls for a couple bras that are 34DD.


Hello In There!

I’ve been amusing my friends with this horrible story for a few weeks and it has received plenty of guffaws from my completely tasteless and horrible friends so I thought the general masses may also appreciate it for it’s incredible base and even prurient ideas.

On my very first pre-natal appointment, in the middle of December, I woke up early and made sure I ate plenty of food and loaded my bloated butt into the car with baby daddy and drove on over to the hospital.  After waiting for at least an hour, I was called into the exam room with the midwife.  She does the normal questions many of which I was not exactly forthright in my answers.  Honestly, what does it matter to the hospital that I was a total stoner when I was a teenager? So, drug use, no. Alcohol use, no. Smoking, no ( I had quit, a couple days before because that was when I found out I was baking a baby, so that one was sort of honest.)  I really just didn’t want to hear a bunch of crap.  I already knew the possible damage I had done. I also knew that there isn’t much the quacks can do for me or the little monster if there was damage. Oh, and I knew that in all likely hood, had their been damage I wouldn’t still be pregnant at 11 weeks.  Side note, not surprisingly, they didn’t believe me and gave me a tox screen anyways. Negative, of course, but still annoying.

We finally get to the good part. She has me strip down and climb into a johnny and lay down on the table.  She grabs a little blue tool thing and sets it on gel on my belly and then we hear it, the heart beat.  It was strong and watery sounding. I knew my eyes were turning read. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes and a smile creep over my face.  We listen for a minute or two.  Dad, for some horrible reason, was not allowed in the room for this so he didn’t get to hear it.  He still hasn’t as the ultrasound woman didn’t turn the sound on while she had the doohicky in my whoo-whoo.  I think this is because she is mean.  She may have had her reasons, but I still prefer to think that she just has a failure in her spirit and she is mean.

While I was riding the high of hearing the parasite in my belly, she tells me to get my feet in the stirrups. Time to start the pelvic exam. Goody.  Speculum. Goo. Q-tips with really long handles (thank god!,) little brush thing, little spatula thing. Fine.  I really didn’t want ANYTHING up in my lady parts, but whatever.  Pelvic exams are never pleasant, not like medical fetish porn would lead you to believe. No one is happy to be there, but this time I really, really didn’t want any of it. Even before I knew I was pregnant, that area was closed for business.  I hear that makes me a little strange. It’s not that I don’t feel attractive, because I still am and I know it.  I have a mirror that I obsessively look into, because I’m incredibly vain, and I think I actually look a bit better now than I did before.  I finally have bewbs, so that’s nice and my skin looks Amazing. It’s just like that area of my body is sealed or something.  I don’t even touch it.  I normally touch it all the time so this is pretty strange.  Oh, the miracle of pregnancy.  Alrighty, so out come the detailing kit and the lift and then in go the gloved (I hope) fingers.  This is, again, horribly invasive for me at the time.  Like being at a frat party too late, except I couldn’t smell vomit wafting up from the carpet or stale, cheap beer on her breath.  She then, with what feels like her whole hand inside me, grabs my uterus from the inside and the outside together. Like she is grabbing a football and pulling it up.  Imagine it. Yes, just like that. She lets go of the top and keeps rooting around inside and then she says this, “Well, it’s roomy. Plenty of room for the baby.”

Seriously? Roomy? That is how she is describing my who-who? Since when did it get roomy? I’ve never, ever heard it called roomy before. It was like she was describing an apartment. Does it also get a lot of natural sunlight in the morning? Now, maybe, just maybe she was describing my pelvis. Describing my pelvis would be nicer.  Even though I do not use that hospital any longer, I kinda want to call and ask her exactly what she meant. I wish I had been in a more critical mindset, so I could have found out what she meant at the time.

So, there you have it. You now know I have something that could be described as “roomy” down there in my lady parts.

The Double Lines

It’s been 10 days since I saw the double pink lines in the 99 C store pregnancy test I had reluctantly purchased.

I hadn’t had my period for a couple months, but that was THAT odd, it did sometimes happen.  Not usually to me, but there were plenty of stories from women (on the internet) who skipped periods for nothing more than a slight hormonal problem so why not me? Maybe I would get lucky and have an ovarian cyst that was stopping up the works.  Huge tender breast can come from a cyst right? Right. I checked it on every medical website around.  They totally can.  Moodiness happens from being premenstrual so that was covered, I was very premenstrual. Cravings can come from that too.

The night sweats were harder to explain.  I immediately assumed that as a 32 year old it was perfectly reasonable to add pre- menopausal to my list of possible ailments. I looked it up, it can happen at 32. It can happen younger for Pete’s sake, so why not?  Well, at least if I was about to enter menopause, at least I wouldn’t have to deal with the ovarian cyst any longer.  I could get used to the hot flashes.

Sleep disturbances are totally normal for me, so I wasn’t even really trying to figure out why I wasn’t able to sleep till 8 am and why I was sleeping till 5 pm.  Those were pretty close to my normal hours anyways. The only thing was I found myself too exhausted to go out. This is truly a shocking development, as for the last few years of un or under-employment I had become almost a professional partier. But now,  I couldn’t even be bothered to take a shower. I would be on the guest list +2 every night and  all I wanted to do was layabout and read and nap.  I had become a house cat. It was this that led me to believe I had sunk deep into depression or maybe I had Chronic Fatigue.  The CF self-diagnosis was convenient because the diagnosis is so vague anyways.

I always have to pee so that also wasn’t such a concern.  I drink tons of water, but that is mainly to deal with the tons of bourbon I (used to) drink. The only nausea I experience was when I was my bartender friend poured me a shot of Wild Turkey because I was in the bar dressed as a turkey.  Yeah, that’s a long story.

Alas, I was beginning to not fit into much of my clothing.  I was eating like a manatee after all, so that would make sense. But, really it was more than that.  I may have been in denial, but I’m not stupid.  I knew what it all added up to.  I just didn’t want to know.  I was hoping my patented Immaculate Intervention method would work for me and if I didn’t really confirm it, I could miscarry and not be sad about being a poor vessel.  Once I knew, for sure, I would have to make a decision.

Abortion seemed to be the obvious answer. A single, 32 year old, party animal who lives in a ware house with three guys and four dogs and is living by the seat of her pants is not exactly what one thinks of when they think of a good time or person for motherhood.  I’m not at all pro-life. I mean, sure, live. But, I’m not even pro-choice. I would say I’m more, well, not pro-abortion, because that just seems wrong, but pro-planning and pro-doing the right thing for all parties involved. This was not how I had “planned” my journey into motherhood starting.  God, “journey into motherhood” sounds so ridiculous. But, what is this? My abrupt transition? My sudden realization that this is what is going to happen? My one thing in life I can’t procrastinate about? Fuck it. I don’t know. It is what it is.

Maybe adoption was the way to go. After searching around the internet for a bit, I knew couldn’t possibly let some bible-thumping weirdos from Temecula or Salt Lake City raise my child.  Oh no.  Not this kid.  I decided it would have to be a nice gay family.  I had a lot to choose from.  I read hundreds of stories. I read their websites and looked at their pictures.  I was the first time I cried about my pregnancy. Reading the stories of how they met and how much they wanted to raise a child together made tears stream down my face.  I felt for them. I really wanted to help them, but it made me feel so callous.  I was carrying this one thing that so many people would be willing to mortgage their houses for or fly around the world for and I was going to just give it away.  Actually, that’s a lie.  I was hoping to make some money on it.  Trade it for a new car.  Yeah, I know, it’s horrible. I’m not proud of myself for that, but like all of this, it is what it is.

It was that experience, the looking for adoptive parents experience that made me realize I was an ass. Here I was, at the perfect age for child rearing, carrying a child that would no doubt be beautiful (as I’m a looker and so is it’s dad) and smart (daddy’s super smart and I’m pretty bright) and it was here.  It was healthy because it was still there.  After 10 weeks of partying it was still there.  After the hot tubs, the smoking, the drinking, the coffee and being cinched into corsets it was still there.  I was even lucky enough to have relieved myself from my very high pressure, high stress job a while ago and had learned to cut my expenses and live cheaply.  I no longer needed to make tons of money, I could be even happier with less. I was at least in a good situation to have a child and actually get to raise it myself instead of plunking it in daycare or with a nanny.

I decided to do it. To keep it. I notified the father via text message. I quit drinking. I quit smoking and I switched to half caff. Those double pink lines had just changed everything.

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