The Terrible Transforming Ta-tas

I like to think I'm a pretty run of the mill new dad.  I have no idea what I'm doing and everything changed way too fast leaving me struggling to figure who and what I am and if I'm doing things right.  But the one thing that I didn't expect is something I've always been such a big fan of would change so automatically.

Mammaries, tater tots, fun bags, yams, sweater puppets, gazongas, boobs, breasts, and hooters.  Like most straight men, at least I think, I have always been a huge fan of the cans. It's one of those admiration and attractions that I thought would be with me for life.  I figured I'd be side-eyeing and cat-calling low-cut blouses into my eighties.  And then, I had a child.

Here's my theory on the issue, and I'm still working on the scientific specifics of my new found disillusion with the once glorious glands on our lady counterparts.  For the most part, save movies and strip clubs, jugs are one of those private parts you only get after you put in a little effort with a lady, as a type of reward.  It's this accomplishment of suave or trickery that makes them so special.  You've got to see what not many have seen before, but that all changes.

Image courtesy of theleakyboob.com

Image courtesy of theleakyboob.com

I didn't know at the time, but it started to change when my wife and I were in the delivery room, and shit got messy.  My lady's rolling hills were flopping around all over the place.  Nurse and doctor and tech and janitor after another came in and out of room all the while her honkers were on display.  While I secretly thought it was kind of cool, like some big hippie love-fest from the sixties, it was the beginning of the end of my obsession with la melons.

Image courtesy of everydaypeoplecartoons.com

Image courtesy of everydaypeoplecartoons.com

Following the doctoral peep show, was day in and day out of my wife pulling out her dairy section to feed my amazing kid.  However, she'd pull out the puff puppies everywhere, no matter who was around: neighbors, strangers, relatives, and clowns at parties.  We've been married a while, so I've seen the rack a million times, but it was just me seeing them up until now.  And I didn't realize that would change things, but it did.  

I write now to those dads who await their first kid, or are sitting now staring at fire-scotch in hand-wondering where the love of your lady's Winnebagos went.  Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't still love my lady's body in every way, but I look at all titty-titty-bang-bangs differently now.  I feel like any woman I've ever known could pull 'em out and pop a kid on it and it wouldn't matter.  A friend of ours did that the other day, and what would have before been a gratuitous knob shot, was now just a glimpse of a feed bag.  It was like showing off her elbow.

But, before you nip the nuts in complete avoidance of this terrible transformation of ta-tas, I implore you to wait it out.  Boob feeding ain't forever and neither is this odd mutation of mountains to milk sacks.  Keep in mind you're a dude and we don't hold onto things.  At the end of the day, we're all just savage beasts.  Once that kid pops off it ain't long before you pop back on.  Give it some time and ride this weird wave for what it is, the worst magic trick of your life.

About the Author
Joe Kennett is a first-time dad and former lover of all things breast... and is my husband.