Pregnancy, Breasts, and the Special Tragedy of Being a Large-Breasted Pregnant Woman

My friend Lindsay likes to remind me not to get too upset about the myriad horrifying bodily changes that occur during pregnancy. After all, I'll lose whatever dignity I have left when I finally expel this baby.

Too late. That total loss of dignity might already have come. Last night I began unapologetically brushing my nipples with a hairbrush. As it turns out, itchy nipples and breasts are among the most common pregnancy side effects, particularly for large-breasted women. And one of the things you quickly learn if you suffer from this symptom is that nipples are remarkably hard to scratch. Thus the brush.

My 32DD breasts have grown out of control during this pregnancy, resulting in a G-cup that shows no signs of ceasing its expansion. I have nightmares about being eaten by my breasts. I worry I might literally tip over at some point. I monitor them for signs of growth. I plead with them.



A Brief History of My Breasts and How I Willed Them to Grow Larger 
My five-year-old sister was born with Shirley Temple curls and chestnut-colored hair, creating the sort of aesthetic that produces universal squeals in adults. Like most children, Little Sis was exposed to the beauty myth far too early. Sometime around the age of two, she decided she wanted straight blonde hair like her sister.

So she stole my hair. At least, that's the family joke. This child dedicated herself to obtaining straight hair at all costs, endlessly brushing it, wetting it, and discussing it with Santa. Three years later, her hair is straight as a board, not to mention significantly lighter. My hair has grown inexplicably curlier with each passing year.

Maybe we really can will ourselves to change our phenotype, even without the assistance of dyes and implants. That certainly seems to be what happened with my breasts, and no discussion of these now-massive weights is complete without a mention of how they got to so, well, massive.

I was a late bloomer, so I spent my middle school career praying for any breasts at all--never mind large breasts. By high school, I had settled into a solid A cup. I was miserable. I thought I was stuck with tiny breasts forever, until I learned about false advertising. It began innocently enough, with a push-up bra. When my junior year ended, my best friend and I had constructed a device known as "the contraption," made of three push-up bras seamlessly sewn together.

We thought we looked amazing.

Toward the end of my high school career, I upgraded my look to a heavily padded push-up bra stuffed with silicone inserts. By then, the surest sign of intimacy with another human was my willingness to share the secret of my "large" breasts.

I remained uncomfortable with the ongoing deception, and continually hoped things would change.

Finally, in my late teens, I went through a sort of late puberty that took me to a B cup--passable, but still not the Dolly Parton-esque depths of mammary tissue to which I aspired. Then I went through a messy break up and became even more fixated on growing larger breasts.

I guess the gods finally heard my prayers, because they started growing, and they never stopped. When I crossed the DD threshold, I started to get scared. Now that I'm pregnant, I'm terrified.

So kids, let me warn you: be careful what you wish for. The universe has a way of teaching us lessons. It might give you the breasts you hoped for, and you might realize the terrible error of your ways.

Breasts as Public Property 
Breasts are strange things. We collectively understand that people have little control over other body parts--hip size, hair texture, nose shape. Breasts get shuffled into the "choice" category. After all, anyone can get breast implants. That means that any woman with large breasts--especially if she has a small frame--is automatically suspect.

People have asked me if I have implants for years. It never stops being upsetting. When someone asks you something so personal, they're telling you they have studied your breasts, compared them to your body, and decided there's a discrepancy. I can think of few creepier things to do to another person without actually touching them. Inevitably, though, when I am galled by these questions, I am the bitch, the rude one, the one who refuses to have a good time with the stranger asking me about a private part of my body.

Now that I'm pregnant and considered more an incubator than a human, people are even more unapologetic about mentioning my chesticles. Worse still, they position themselves as authorities not only on breasts, but on my breasts.

They project their own insecurities onto my body. Larger-breasted women tell me how bad they feel for me. Small-breasted women express envy, or warn me to "enjoy it while it lasts." When the price of leaving your house is having to discuss your breasts in detail with at least one random stranger, it's really difficult not to see yourself as an object.

In the past week alone, strangers have asked me my cup size, warned me that my breasts will soon sag, remarked upon the whorishness of being pregnant with big breasts, asked how I will feed my baby with my "implants," and so much more.

The Permanently Wrong Body 
My transition from small-breasted waif to voluptuous pregnant woman who is about to tip over has confirmed what pretty much every woman already knows: there's really only one female body type that's acceptable, and it's the one you don't have.

Society wants you--yes, you personally--to know that your body is wrong. Thin and small-breasted? You're so boyish. Thin with large breasts? You're a whore, and you probably got implants. Pregnant with big breasts? That's just gross. They'll sag soon.

The real reason we want to endlessly dissect women's breasts is that it gives us one more thing to make them feel terrible about. Even if you achieve the nearly impossible beauty standard of a flat stomach, tiny waist, and lithe arms and legs, you're still doing it wrong because you likely have small breasts.

I'm not even sure where I'm going with this one any more, except for this: the most interesting thing about my breast transition is that I'm not the only person who blames myself for my large breast size. Cat callers call me a whore because of my large breasts. Other women decide to hate me because of them. We judge women as if their breasts are in their control, whether we admit it or not. And that judgment spirals out of control during pregnancy.

So I've decided that, the next time someone asks me about my breasts, I'm going to ask them about their genitals. I'll report back.