F is for Fail

I have lost weight in the last few weeks, without actually trying. I stopped caring what I ate, went to the gym when I wanted and drank what I wnted and hey presto, weight loss. I still have a way to go, a depressing way to go, but I can at least fit into some of my old clothes. Including some of my favourite clothes, not just my fat day clothes.

So this morning, in a sunshine and lollipops mood, I felt like wearing one of my dresses. I have a collection of beautiful dresses (mostly red) that I adore. Almost all of them are impractical for breastfeeding, but I don't care. I selected my favourite spotty, 1940s style fitted dress, so very fitted that it snugs in on my curves without causing a single lump. It skims in and out and then has a floaty skirt that ends a few inches above my knees. It's got just enough of a slip so that you can sort of see a hint of leg, but it's not completely sheer. As you may be able to tell I adore it. It also has a deep V-neck, which is supposedly flattering on a large bust.

Anyhoo, I pulled it out this morning and put it on and after a bit of contortion realised it fit. I could do the zip all the way up the back and not one of the pearl faux buttons along the front were straining. I felt pretty and feminine and *normal* as I did my hair and danced around the house.

What I had forgotten however is that I had fed the Possum literally minutes before I got dressed. A big morning feed... One of several that the Possum has on any given morning (he clusterfeeds in the morning). But I was completely oblivious to the issues that this would cause.

After dropping the Elfling off at school, I noticed I was involuntarily tugging on the deep V of my dress to pull it up a bit. I was very absent minded though, and assumed it was just the fact that although the dress is pretty demure, it's a litle bit dressy for school drop off. And headed off to the shops...

About half way around Coles, I realised that my hand was almost glued to the front of my dress, trying to pull it up/trying to cover he heaving mass of glandular tissue below. As I walked around, every time I saw a baby, every time the Possum made a slurping sound as he munched on his fist, I would get a tingle from my collarbone to nipple and the gigantic exploding bosom would heave. And let it be known, that at 9am on a Tuesday morning, there are a lot of babies in Coles.

By the time I got to the checkout, the faint blue lines of veins were becoming visible. As I bent over to empty the trolley, the poor pubescent checkout operator looked stoically into the mid distance and turned an unbecoming shade of puce. The man behind me was very helpful and started up a polite conversation with my cleavage. It began to get painful and they were still growing. It felt like someone somewhere had a bicycle pump with which they were inflating a voodoo doll. By the time I grabbed the fruit from the Greengrocer and headed back to the car I figured that I would never need hire a jumping castle for the kids next birthday party, I would just need to delay a feed for an hour.

I finally got home a few minutes ago and managed to peel off my dress, desperately hoping that the Possum would oblige in the deflation efforts. But alack and alas, the usually ravenous booby boy had fallen asleep and snorted at my attempts to subtly woo him back into consciousness for a snack.

Anyhow, lesson learned. No more dresses, for the time being at least. And out come the F cup bras. How I have (not) missed thee.