5 weeks pregnant

Baby Baking: Week 5 – Return of the Porn Tits

Thankfully, the big auld bloat that was threatening to destroy my wardrobe has simmered its self. For now I know. I’m only going to grow, but seriously, there was absolutely no need for the 6 month pregnant look at under a month pregnant. I’m managing to shuffle into my usual jeans, they may be a wee bit stretched at the seam and provide very little forgiveness for greedy bitches that cani stop stuffing her face, but still, for now they fit. I’m not planning on telling the world about the baby cooking just yet, so I’d appreciate if my clothes could stand by side a little while longer. Not forcing me into pregnancy jeans, which will undoubtedly out me at this early stage in the game. And if my bra could hang in there a little while longer, that would also be great.

What will end up outing me, is my appetite. I’m never one for breakfast, yet now I need it. Then a snack. Then lunch. Then a snack. Then another snack. Trying to curb this bullshit eat-a-thon, I’m stuffing fruit and nuts in my face, followed by whatever is in close proximity. I’ll be satisfied for an hour or two, then it’s back to being a hungry beast again. Just to add a little fuckery into the situation, I also feel nauseous, on and off. Not enough to be sick or chomp down on mints, but taking too large a bite of banana will ignite the gag reflex and force the strongest strength of mind not to hawk up mushed fruit all over my work desk. Sounds, smells and thoughts are enough to provoke the spew beast. Watching Stranger Things while enjoying some fajitas proved difficult – even thinking of it makes me uneasy. 

The only way I can describe my appetite is like being stinking hungover with the munchies. Ordering large pizzas with sides. Becoming neurotic delivery is taking so long, sitting down to taking, what can only be described as fucking orgasmic, bites of delicious, oh my god this is fucking amazing!!!!!! Pizza, swiftly followed by the blank stare stop. Mouth rammed to the gunnels with food, but then the spew skooshes appear. The hunger dissipates. The chances of spewing that pizza back out becomes very real, despite your intense hunger and disgusting food love affair. Defeated, you slow the chewing, actively focusing on every crunch and positioning of pizza in the gub, holding back the threatening stomach expulsion.

I mean seriously, what is the fucking need to feel so hungry and so sick at the same time? Maybe it’s my body’s form of weight control, coz fuck knows I overrode that bitch the first time around.

Everything is just so delicious. And not just food. Lying down. Delicious. A bath. Delicious. Taking high wasted fucking jeans off. Delicious. Bumping uglies. Delicious. My heaving, sore as fuck, yet pornalicious boobs. Delicious. 



Highlights of this week:

    1. Having a sense of smell so strong that I can smell the deceit on your breath. Don’t try to fucking get one past me, I can smell your lying sweat glands warming up.

    2. Bursting out crying when my mum was speaking about my recently deceased gran – which to be fair, is a good reason to cry. But I’m not usually one to cry in those situations. Death or bad news, yes, I will cry like nothing you’ve ever seen. But when I miss someone? Not usually. I’ve never missed someone this much, so maybe the hormones get a free pass on this one. Maybe.

    3. Went in a raging huff that David decided to watch a film instead of coming up to bed at 11PM with me. We are talking waking next day, going to work and continuing the huff well into the next evening kinda petty. I still give no fucks about it.

    4. Reaching nirvana every time I eat. 



One of my most vivid memories of being pregnant with Jess was my boobs, specifically how much they hurt during the first trimester. This time is no different. I’ve been in sports bras for weeks. The only thing preventing me waking during the night as I turn sides. And even then, I need to cup them while I move some nights. With Jess I didn’t appreciate not having a 3 year old who just loves to jump and elbow those angry bitches each day. There’s child birth then there’s tiny elbow nestling into the most aching, sensitive, hard and blood infused breasts you will have- other than breast feeding. Which I’m thankful I’m not currently doing, I’ve seen a few pregnant mammas talk about breast feeding while pregnant and I wince at the thought. Taking my bra off can be painful, luckily Jess stretched the titters out enough that I can pretty much sit, bend and support them with my own thighs during bra removal. Silver linings and all that – quite literally in my case. I’ve still not forgiven Jess for scarring my once untarnished boobs. 

Not one to be blessed with an ample titterz, despite the pain and the look but don’t touch policy, well not until they have been thoroughly warmed up, I’m fair enjoying the porn tits. Brazing about the house in less than fetching sports bras, cleavage popping out, as well as nipples, I’m giving the girls allllllll their glory. It wont be long until they return to a version of their once self, so I’m going to celebrate the last time they will ever be glorious, firm beasts of delight. It would be nice if the hormones could simmer the tits of hell down enough to be useful.  You know, I’m giving it all my best shoulder sashaying in front of the wide eyed Dave, doing the finest prancing, showboating, look at these belters, eh? Then batting his wandering hand down, fueled by the relentless evil energy coming from the angry twins. I mean, you can touch them, but only in a certain way, with a certain pressure and at a certain angle – all of which vary daily. Even for myself. Sorry mate. But trust me, ain’t no one want to take full advantage of these hefty bitches more than me. And that just ain’t happening unless you got the touch of a feather being farted in the wind.

Still, a do love my porn tits.

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