Tater tot nipples and other titty tales

When going braless doesn't feel like an option.

In December 2013, I was seven months pregnant with my youngest son. So pregnant the thick underwire in the only bra that could still fasten somewhat comfortably around my ever-thickening torso had begun to dig angry, red trenches into the top of a belly so round Santa himself couldn’t compete.

Because I worked from home as a freelance writer, I bid a dispassionate farewell to the bothersome bra, figuring my burgeoning belly was more supportive than any underwire could ever be.

I allowed my unwieldy triple-D’s to lounge atop my straining stomach like twin sumo wrestlers flopped onto a couch after a hard-fought match and both they and I basked in our liberation from elastic straps, angry underwire, and social convention.

Ridding myself of the annoying bra was a pleasurable, yet anxious experience. I’ve always been fairly well-endowed. I developed early and fast. I wore two T-shirts in elementary school and by junior high, because my mom wasn’t around to buy me a proper bra nor was she the kind of mom with whom you’d want to go bra shopping, I stole an extra small sports bra from my friend, Missy. It became my young life’s mission to disguise my growing boobs.

Contorting myself into that extra small purple bit of fabric was a chore but I loved it precisely because it was so tight. Like armor before battle, I put that dear bra on every morning before I put on the correctly-sized sports bra I bought on my own from Kmart.

I wore both bras simultaneously throughout junior high to smash my boobs as flat against my chest as possible, especially after a group of 7th grade boys passed around a page torn from a notebook that listed a bunch of girls and rated their physical features. I was singled out for my boob size.

Attention from my peers was embarrassing but, as most girls who develop early know all too well, attention from men far older than you is wholly unwanted and horrifying. Those early teen experiences of grown men ogling my chest combined with a Mormon upbringing that trained me to believe my body is a beacon of explosive sexuality I must restrain at all costs lest I trick righteous men into behaving badly spawned an innate need to hide my chest. A reflex that has never fully left me even after using my salacious titty traps to keep my three beautiful babies alive for the first weeks and months after they were born.

About a week before Christmas my husband and I strapped Blake and Henry into their carseats for the short ride down the street to our landlord’s house to deliver a few neighborly gifts. Figuring my stretchy, pajama-like maternity shirt was fine for a two-minute, front porch, gift handoff I did not trouble myself with the hassle of strapping on my giant, Walmart bra.

Serge parked in their driveway and left the Honda running while I lumbered to the front door and pressed the doorbell. Stephen, who, incidentally, was also the chief of police in a nearby town, opened the door, and I could see his wife, Stephanie, approaching us from the family room in the back of their home.

I said hello and handed over the gifts along with the obligatory holiday well wishes. As I turned to leave Stephen made the typical dumbass pregnancy comment about the size of my basketball belly then said something I will never forget.