Save The Tatas.

Dear Diary, 


     Today I had to do a double take. I walked past a mirror and noticed that my boobs were about 3 inches lower than they were the last time I noticed them. I probably could have tucked them into my shorts if I wanted, but I wasn't feeling the need to look so proper. If you've ever seen The Emperor's New Groove, which I'm sure you have if you've got children, then you'll probably best know what I'm talking about when I say my chest was looking a bit Yzma-like. (See picture. Boob is the pointy thing poking out the right side.)I like this picture. It's totally me & my husband. ANYWAYS...

     Just to be sure I was seeing things right, I grabbed one (a boob, that is) and pulled it up to the spot I thought it should be. Yep, that's where it should be, I said. My bra was obviously not doing its job. As I thought about the future of my poor tatas, I wondered at what point would they reach the bottom of my torso. It's like a slow moving avalanche of skin that eventually comes to a stop. My grandma calls small boobs "fried eggs". The image of that razor thin layer of egg white with a small yellow yolk popping up makes me think she is a genius for describing them so perfectly. I always had fried eggs...until I had kids. And I didn't mind! But then I began entertaining the idea of a fuller chest and BAM, 3 months into my pregnancy I went from a size A to a full size C. I knew I was in trouble because I am a MILK COW after I give birth. Sure enough, I shot up to a size 34ZZ and when the top of my boob nearly reached my collar bone, I wanted to take back anything and everything I said about big boobs being awesome. Now my milk has regulated and I'm left with deflated balloons that I hope will decide to one day return to their rightful place on my body. Until then, here's a joke for ya. What did one boob say to the other? We better get some support around here or people are gonna think we're nuts. (Think about that one for a minute.) Happy Saturday. 


Sincerely, 


Me.