Expecting More, Getting Less and Being Okay With It

Grandma always promised me that I'd fill out one day. So I waited.

I waited through puberty.

I waited through my college years.

I waited through my early 20s.

Finally, I gave up and accepted my Kansas curves (read: none).

Then I got pregnant and read stories of women's bras overflowing. I grew giddy as a -- well, a man -- at the prospect of cleavage. Pregnancy hormones offered me a promise of actually filling a bra cup after spending a lifetime half full.

So today, 30 weeks pregnant (that's seven months), I walked into a maternity store and asked for a bra for my gigantic bosoms. When I told the sales woman my size, she said, "Oh, we only carry C and up. Most women start out," she paused searching for a polite phrase.

"With a little bit more," I finished for her.

Later, I complained to Rodney that even when pregnant I was too small to fill out a bra.

"If something doesn't fit, why do women always blame themselves?" he asked. "A man would never blame himself. If he was 500 pounds, walked into the store for a pair of pants and they told him they didn't have his size, he'd say, 'F***ing store' and walk out."

I giggled. "You're right," I said.

"Men don't put up with that kind of stuff. They just wouldn't go back to that store," he said.

So A Pea in the Pod is now on the No-Shop List, and I'm content with my one curve: my ever expanding Sprout House.