Today was the day I bought maternity bras.
Let’s be frank, I’d been putting it off. I’d been squeezing my swollen, heavy sacks into my cute fashion bras for two months-too long and I had started wearing my sports bra every. single. day.
Okay, I’ll admit it, I was in denial. I was in denial about how a good percentage of my boob was no longer neatly supported inside the bra cups, and they were actually leaking out the sides. I had mass fidoobidas going on.
I was in denial about the fact that I was in need of *gasp* mummy bras.
This is such a small thing, yet I was willing to be physically uncomfortable for about two months to put it off. I had reached the point where, at the end of each day, my breasts had an imprint of my lone sports bra pattern on them. There was a lot of pressure.
So I trudged in to Target (no way am I spending big bucks on these big cups) and found my way into “the section”. Oh my was I in for a rude awakening. Lace? No. Pretty colours? No. Patterns? Girl. Get serious.
I snatched a few and glanced around, no one I know is watching this right? I skulked off to the changing room and dismayed at the size that I needed. And just because I was feeling extra masochistic, I decided to check out my rear in the mirror while I was at it. Is there anything more abhorrent than a department store’s fitting room lighting? I challenge you to find something.
Despite the somberness of my mood though, there was something that got me lifted. Man my belly was round. Like the textbook pregnancy round, the type that maternity ads are made of. I stood there, in the pile of plastic hangars and bras of different scary shapes and colours, and just admired my bump, in all its glory, swaying from angle to angle. I was proud.
Okay, so I concede, that despite the scary bras and the sagging back end, and the ouchy nips and the aching back; that that belly is so cool. My belly is so cool. I am so cool, for doing this crazy thing that is growing a tiny human.