When I first fell pregnant, I vowed to myself that I would never write about the mysteries of female mammalian procreation. "Oh no," I told myself, "keep a little mystery in it for all of the other girls, Kaz." But, as time draws on, I'm finding it harder and harder not to become one of those smarmy women who thinks they're the only ones who have ever played host to a foetus. And anyway, we all know how much the world needs one more person blogging condescendingly about the trials and tribulations of pregnancy. There's a real dearth of funny pregnancy blogs that scare the bejesus out of teenage mothers ... or not ... and so ... I have decided to blog about it.
At first, the situation wasn't really that hilarious I have to admit. Sure, it was a planned pregnancy — at least I think it was, the other half had convinced himself that an abundance of Bundaberg Rum is a form of contraception and was slightly befuddled when he realised that the months of "trying" as I called it had actually amounted to conception. Who'd have thunk it?
The first sign that anything was afoot was when my breasts started campaigning for their own postcode. Not only were my enormous bosoms impossible to hide, they were also becoming increasingly veiny and soon resembled a google map of the Australian Alps. On top of that, my nipples were growing too and appeared to be attempting to abseil off the face of Mounts Gi and Normus. I am a woman who has always been possessed of ridiculously small nipples — nipples so tiny that "no nipples", "no nipples" was a taunt my friends employed frequently when I was at university (and very much regretting ever topless sunbathing). Prior to that, it was "no boobs, no boobs" until they inadvertently poked my right eye out during year eleven. Well, hello there!
Anyway, I was rather fond of my petite pink nipples which never caused me any trouble and remained permanently on low beam unless the weather dropped below freezing or they were being interfered with. But, as soon as the pregnancy happened, my nipples took on a life of their own. Even the slightest movement of a T-shirt would perk them up unnaturally and now, at six months, if I'm not careful to hide them in the ugliest thickest maternity-esque bra I can find they threaten to stick out like plumbers thumbs at any moment. All of the pregnancy books console small-breasted women with the concept that their breasts will be "wonderfully full, giving them a curvaceous figure" or, in my case, a figure like a jersey cow. I can't wait for the suction cups of expressing breast milk!