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Three more observations about my breasts

I don't look unquestionably pregnant when I'm clothed, thanks largely to my uncompromising foundation garment. Because of its unparallelled engineering, my breasts still appear to defy gravity, protruding much farther than my abdomen. I look dumpy, not pregnant, and my majestic prow precedes the rest of me into a room by an average of forty-five seconds.


I was cupping my breasts (or as much as would fit) in my hands the other day, feeling their heft and the strange texture of the stretch marks that now marble my skin. "My breasts," I called to Paul, who was in the shower, "will never be the same again."

"It's okay," he called. "They'll still be attached to you."


The books all say you should expect your breasts to change during pregnancy. They will increase in size, of course, possibly creating stretch marks. Most likely your nipples and areolae will grow and darken as the weeks pass, making themselves a more obvious target for a hungry near-blind newborn.

Mine have done all of the above. Although I knew they would, I wasn't entirely prepared for how dramatic the changes would be. These are not my breasts — because someone would ask — but they are a fairly accurate representation of the before and after of my formidable rack.