(Well, that should get me a few more hits from the googlepervs, anyway. Welcome, perverts! I'm sure you'll find much of interest here).
I'd like to take a moment to talk about the wonder of boobs. My boobs in particular. Have you seen them lately? They're spectacular.
The effect of pregnancy and child fattening on the breastal regions is not advertised nearly enough. Throughout pregnancy, my boobs grew and grew, going from a perfectly respectable 32D at the start, to an earth-shattering 34H at 39 weeks.
And then the milk came in. My god, they really don't explain what happens when 'the milk comes in'. It was like having an ill-advised, Chantelle-off-of-Big-Brother boob job overnight. They didn't just get big, they turned into attention-seeking missiles. They were rock hard and spherical, and defied gravity in a most disturbing fashion. At least twice the size of Lumpy's head (and remember, this is a 98th percentile head we're talking about here, not one of those pathetic little baby pea-heads. His is virtually adult sized already), he must have been petrified every time one loomed towards him, fronted by its eight-foot nipple. I told Mr Badger I was worried this would lead to an obsession with massive, Jordan-esque breasts in later life. He looked momentarily confused, before saying, "What, like every other man?" Fair point, I suppose.
I still struggle with the notion that I am keeping Lumpy alive solely through these boobs, magnificent though they are. I think that Mr Badger may well be sneaking a few pies into him at the dead of night. But he swears he's not, despite the pile of Fray Bentos trays steadily growing beside the cot. By the looks of it, Steak and Ale with extra lard is his favourite. Atta boy.
Pies aside, I've become slightly obsessed with how much weight I can make Lumpy put on purely through the power of boobs. We're coming up on 6lbs over birth weight right now, with Lumpy weighing in at a bit under 14lbs. I'm aiming for 20 stone. Okay, so this may lead to a difficult childhood, and some awkwardness at school, eventually resulting in complete social ostracization, but I think it's worth it for the contribution to medical science, and the entry in the Guinness Book of Records.
Apparently, you burn an average 500 extra calories while breastfeeding, which should be enough to transform me from a handy rugby prop into a size zero supermodel over the course of Lumpy's babyhood (especially if I keep pushing for the 20 stone). This doesn't seem to be happening so far (possibly because I spend the whole day eating my body weight in pick 'n' mix while watching Morse reruns), but I'm prepared to keep trying for as long as it takes. I mean, there's nothing disturbing about a woman breastfeeding her teenage son, is there?
And with the mighty boobs come the wonders of the nursing bra. These have many excellent features, such as easy nipple access flaps (that'll keep the perverts happy) that you invariably forget to do up when you go and answer the door to the postman. It makes his morning, I can tell you. And occasionally takes his eye out. They are also extremely useful as emergency tents, in case you find yourself caught short on a mountainside in an unexpected snowstorm. In fact, my friend has already booked to hold her wedding in one of my bras next September. There won't be a dry eye in the house.
And pumping! How did I forget the delights of pumping? You really haven't lived till you've sat on the couch with your nipple being rhythmically sucked in and out of a plastic breast pump, while your husband looks on, transfixed. If that doesn't make you feel sexy, then frankly you're dead from the waist down.
So, in conclusion, breastfeeding boobs - how great are they? They transform you into a ropey page three girl, soak your clothes and anyone sitting too near you at unexpected moments, introduce you to a whole new concept in kinky underwear, and give you an excuse to flash strangers in public. I have no idea why everyone isn't doing it.