Chapter One Rough Draft

Go to: to read a rough draft of chapter one in the Adventures of a Small-Breasted Woman.

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Moved to New Site

For more adventures about my small-breasted life, please go to  Thanks for reading!  -Stacy

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Push Through Your Ass

Push Through Your Ass!

5:30 AM:  I wake up.  This is day 280 of the longest pregnancy ever.  I sit on the toilet for the fourth time of the overnight sleeping process.  Every time my rear-end touches a surface to relax on, it feels like I’m sitting on her precious little head.  I’ve been dilated at four centimeters and having stupid mild contractions every ten minutes for two-weeks!  Nothing wants to get started.  I want this baby out!  The warmth of the early morning pee feels good – a little smile goes over my face.  Then I stop urinating but I really don’t.  Holy crap!  Why can’t I stop peeing?  On no!  Tiny Genius must have kicked my bladder or my kidneys so hard and perhaps caused serious internal damage.  This baby girl hates me already!

5:35 AM:  “Sweets!  Sweets!”  I yell from the bedroom bathroom.  The response to my frantic calls of death is increased decibels of snoring.  Sweets is snoring, the dog is snoring, even the cat is snoring.  I’m going to die all alone on the toilet – right here, right now.  Finally the liquid flow stops.  Then it dawned on me… my water broke!  Operation “Salt ‘n’ Pepa” begins – Awe Push It, Push It Really Good.  First, I must shower, wash my hair, and shave the jungle.  Thank goodness the bathroom mirror is placed just right that I can use it from the shower to guide myself through the deep bush of my love jungle as I weed whack around my Whoo-Hoo.  Now I blow dry my hair so it’s beautiful and full of body.  Next, the applying of make-up specially bought so I don’t look like a washed-out, pale as a ghost new mom in the immediate, after the birth pictures.  You lose a lot of blood when you give birth.  Now I put on my fabulous black sun dress with my bejeweled flip-flops that shows off my sparkly, purple shined toes.  I’m ready to give birth!  Now where are those painful contractions?  Where’s Sweets?  Snore…snore…snore.

6:00 AM:  “Sweets…it’s time to wake up.  Tiny Genius wants today to be her birthday.”  So begins the most bizarre hours of my life.  Sweets slowly wakes up and decides he needs to shower, shave, and walk the dogs before we leave.

8:00 AM:  We finally leave for the hospital.  Still, I am not having any seriously strong contractions.  Yet, Sweets turns into Richard Petty and instantly our new Chrysler 200 becomes the fastest stockcar on county roadways.  Why do men think they need to drive so fast to the hospital when the wife goes into labor?  I believe it’s the influence of television and movies.  Our neighbor, Mr. Wanna Be Retired, told me he felt cheated that he never got the chance to race his woman to the hospital for the birth of his son.  Must be some kind of substitute for men to feel like they contributed to the labor process by driving his woman to the hospital in this dangerously rushed like state.

8:15 AM:  Arrive at the hospital in fifteen minutes when it should have been a thirty minute drive.  “Fifteen minutes!  That has to be a record.  Don’t you think I broke the record?”  I reply, “Yes, dear.  You are the fastest father-to-be ever.”  We are escorted to the “labor” room.  After the baby is born, we will be moved to a “mother and baby” room.

9:00 AM:  Dr. Coldhands arrives and decides this labor needs to move faster.  Pitocin drip starts and we settle in.  “Stacy, do you want an epidural?”  Women have been giving birth for years without pain killers.  “No, I think I’ll be okay.  I didn’t need one with my first born.  Thanks.”

9:20 AM:  “GET THE NURSE AND GET THE EPIDURAL DUDE!”  Contracts went from nothing to two minutes apart and two minutes long.  By far, the most pain I’ve ever experienced in my life.  Like a just sharpen Wusthoff slicing knife going into my tailbone.  What the fuck is going on?!

9:30 AM:  Epidural is administered and I’m in heaven.  I can feel contractions but no pain.  Time for a movie and we have three choices:  Parenthood, Look Who’s Talking, and Batman Begins.  How Batman Begins made the list, I don’t know but I’m glad it did.

11:30 AM:  Movie is over.  “I think I need to push.”  If I knew how easy it was to give birth with an epidural, I would have done this the first time around.  Nurse Nellie comes in the room and calls the doctor to start the pushing process.  Right before I spread my legs to open wide, a maintenance man enters the room.  I think to myself, “It must be morphine that they are giving me.  This man really doesn’t exist in this room.  And why are they giving me morphine?  I know they aren’t.”  The last time I had morphine after a surgery, I imagined three little kittens under the sink in the hospital room bathroom.  They were so cute, but the nurse assured me the kittens weren’t there.  Dr. Coldhands asks, “Is there a reason you need to be in the room right now?”  Mr. Clean says in a Bill Murray Groundhog Day accent, “Um, yeah, the light here needs to fixed.”  I decide to speak my mind, “Well, um, yeah, do you want to see my baby head’s crowning?  What the hell is wrong with you?!  Get your oversized, ugly, stupid ass out of my room!”

11:45 AM:  “Your baby is face up and I need to turn her.  I’m going to stretch you a little so I can get in there.”  What?!  Now, I know you’re not really with it when you’re pushing a baby out but I swear he stretched my poor broken Whoo-Hoo as if I was Elastic Woman.  I didn’t care about the baby for a moment, just about my Whoo-Hoo.  Will she ever be the same?  Can he put an extra stitch or two in there to tighten her up again?  Will I ever enjoy sweet love again?  “Stacy, you need to push through your ass,” declares Nurse Nellie.  Did she really say that?  Sweets confirms with a joking smile, “Come on Sweetie, push through your ass.”  It’s official, I’m in the freaking Twilight Zone.

12:05 PM:  “Do you want to deliver your baby?  Just take your hands and grab under the shoulders and pull her out.”  This whole concept really grosses me out.  All that white cheese looking gunk will be all over my hands.  I do it anyway so no one thinks I’m some mean mother who doesn’t want to touch her baby.  I grab her and pull her up on my stomach.  She’s screaming at me and all I want is someone to clean her.  What’s wrong with me?  The nurse and doctor keep saying how beautiful she is.  I keep thinking she needs a bath.  Then I feel the strong urge to start the breastfeeding process.  Mother Nature is taking over just like she should.  Hum… I wonder how much bigger my boobs will be when the milk comes in.

To be continued…

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Even Sex Didn’t Work

Even Sex Didn’t Work

     Good morning sunshine!  It’s going to be a great day to have a baby.  Only problem is the baby is not cooperating.  We stopped preterm labor at thirty-three weeks since it was best for Tiny Genius.  So I’ve been stuck at three centimeters and 75% effaced for five weeks now and I truly believe that our Tiny Little Genius is totally angry with us and will not come out until week forty-one!  I walk around like a cantaloupe is hanging inside my vaginal wall!  This baby must come out today.  Plus, it’s Sunday and I don’t want to go back to work tomorrow.  Selfish, yes, but I’m looking forward to maternity leave.  Please, give me my sanity back.  I look on the internet for magical ways to kick start some real contractions.  Here’s what I found:

Red Raspberry Leaf Tea




Bumpy Car Ride


Pulling Weeds

Hold a newborn

Power Walk



     After church, we went down every dirt road possible on the way home.  Surprisingly, the dirt roads were well groom and not so rough after all.  Next, we stop at the local grocery store and stock up on the necessary, for sure will work, inducing labor foods.  For lunch, I put chopped up eggplant, tomatoes, onions, and lots of peeper in a frying pan, topped with mozzarella.  It tastes really good!  Next, I eat a whole pineapple.  Today is beautiful with sunshine and eighty degrees.  To the lake we go to have some fun.  Throughout the rest of the day, I tackled the rest of the list, including a bumpy boat ride.  I do not recommend holding a newborn.  Sweets and I both held a two week old baby and all it caused was the desire to get our baby out even more.  By the end of the day, all I accomplished was a sore back, lots of heartburn, and advice from others on what to do.  I do not recommend the following techniques we heard about:  castor oil (acts like a laxative) and nipple stimulation.  Nipple simulation?  I know you’re thinking that may be arousing, but it’s not that kind of pleasure.  Instead you are to twist and tweak your nipples for up to an hour, two to four times a day.  No thank you.  At the end the day, we have a glass of wine, followed by some very comical sex…I will spare you the details at this time.

     I wake up the next morning.  Nothing.  I feel nothing!  No contractions, no leaking water from any exit hole of my body.  Nothing!  Even the sex didn’t work.  It’s Monday.  I have to go to work.  I dread going to work this pregnant.  The comments throughout the day never cease: 

“You look like you swallowed a basketball, maybe two.”

“You’re all belly.  And it’s huge!”

“I only gained ten pounds with my pregnancy; you look like you’ve put on at least twenty.”

“Do you think you should eat that Krispy Kreme?”

“You look like you could go anytime now.”

“You poor thing and all this record heat, you must be miserable.”

And my favorite, “You look healthy.”  What?  Healthy?  Is that the kind way of saying you look fat?

As soon as I walk into the office Ms. Sassy Pants decides to share her opinion with me, “Your belly is huge!  It’s so big that you look like you have no boobs now.  I hope you’re bottle-feeding cause that baby will not get enough milk from you.  You look so tired and pale.”  Inside my head I want to say, “What is your problem bitch?!  I’m nine months pregnant!!!”  Instead, I just look at Ms. Sassy Pants and give her my fake laugh, the one that sounds like a woodpecker, and respond, “Oh, well this baby is sucking the life out of me right now.”  At the same time I say those words, I picture my fist bashing into her face.  So now I go through the day, praying for the onset of labor, and crying on the inside over the notion of being small-breasted once again.  At least she spared telling me about her girlfriend’s stillborn story.  I usually have to hear that one at least once a week.  If Tiny Genius doesn’t come out soon, I fear I will hurt Ms. Sassy Pants.  Bottom line:  Tiny Genius will enter the world when she’s ready or when my doctor induces me in two weeks.

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If I Only Had a Brain

If I Only Had a Brain

     Oh sweet, precious, mind stabilizing chocolate icing Krispy Kreme doughnut slightly warmed in the microwave for 12 seconds, come to Mama!  I reach my hand into the display cabinet and grab the perfect one.  This morning on the way to work, instead of Starbucks, I stopped at my favorite Speedway station.  Ever since I achieved the status of third trimester, I crave Krispy Kreme’s like there is no tomorrow.  I walk up to the register, only to be greeted by Smoking-Addicted-Bottled-Blonde lady.  “Oh, I love these things.  They are so good but I have to watch my figure.”  I look at her figure and the non-Christian in me says with my inside head voice, “But she’s shaped like a pumpkin.  What figure is she talking about?  She must be joking.”  I quickly make sure I didn’t say anything out loud.  Nope, I’m good.  I respond, “I’m feeling lucky today, give me one of those new $20 scratch-offs.”  With a big smile, she hands me the ticket to my possible financial freedom.  What a sweet lady she is.  Just then I hear a man whistling behind me a song from Wizard of Oz.  I start to sing along to the whistle in my head as I grab my Krispy Kreme and lotto ticket:

     I could wile away the hours
     Conferrin’ with the flowers
     Consultin’ with the rain
     And my head I’d be scratchin’
     While my thoughts were busy hatchin’
     If I only had a brain”

Turning around, I noticed the two Dumb Fucks staring at me and they start to laugh right after the one stops whistling.  That’s when I realized the whistling was a joke about me.  “If I only had a brain…” 

     Poor idiots, they couldn’t foresee what was about to happen to them.  You know how the Hulk looks right before he turns into the Hulk?  That’s what happens to me in this third trimester of pregnancy.  I have no control over my rage at times.  I twisted my head around, like an exorcist gone bad, and ask, “Is this some kind of joke about me?  Do you really think I don’t have a brain?  Is it because I’m a woman or the blonde hair?  Do you even know what 2+2 is?  You both must be from Ohio since you both are total dumb fucks for pissing off a pregnant woman who hasn’t had her morning Krispy Kreme yet!”  Slowly, I try calming myself down by doing some meditating breathing techniques.  Then one of the Dumb Fucks says, “You’re a bitch with nice boobies.”  Really?  I have nice boobies?  A big smile comes across my face and I reply, “Bless your precious heart.  Thank you.”

     In the third trimester of pregnancy, mood swings are at an all-time high.  According to the  “Mood changes during pregnancy can be caused by physical stresses, fatigue, changes    in your m etabolism, or by the hormones estrogen and progesterone. Significant changes in your hormone levels can affect your level of neurotransmitters, which are brain chemicals that regulate mood. Mood swings are mostly experienced during the first trimester between 6 to 10 weeks and then again in the third trimester as your body prepares for birth.” During pregnancy, a woman’s brain may not function as smooth as before.  I’ve noticed this phenomenon.   It’s not that I don’t have a brain, it’s because of neurotransmitters going on the fritz.  Supposedly, you should get more sleep, take a nap, eat well, go to yoga, yada yada to help with the mood swings.  I prefer to treat them with Krispy Kremes and shopping.  As I drive into work, my mouth salivates as I dream of taking the Krispy Kreme out of the microwave and inserting the mood fixer into my mouth.  “What the?!”  I slam on my brakes.  A white pick-up truck with camouflage trim and slightly oversized tires cuts me off…of course it has an Ohio license plate.

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Mr. Bones Gets Stoned

Mr. Bones Gets Stoned

     Many times I have witnessed various disturbing events pass before my eyes.  Domestic violence, a child being slapped in the face while in the grocery line, a girl who is really a man at a Las Vegas night club snorting something from a vial around his (or her?) neck, and the sight of a bag of weed Young Neighbor Rich Boy somehow left on my beach and my dog crazily rolling in the sand.  I rubbed my eyes, I was in total disbelief.  The Young Neighbor Rich Boy borrowed our kayaks and apparently forgot to take his Mary Jane with him.  Mr. Bones, half beagle-half French bulldog with an underbite, is non-stop rolling around in the sand with a smile on his face.  He’s on his back just going back and forth in the summer breeze.  “Mr. Bones, are you ok?” He stops rolling, stares out into the water, and starts howling at the passing geese.  Now he seems to be getting a little paranoid.  He darts his body to the left as if something is there and then darts to the right, all in very jerky movements.  “What’s after you, Mr. Bones?”  He’s eyes, which don’t look in the same direction to begin with, are bugging out of his head and totally bloodshot.  Yep, Mr. Bones is stoned.

     Now Mr. Bones is no stranger to eating various foods and drinks that may kill him.  One time he drank a twelve ounce White Russian that was more Russian than White and lived to tell the tale.  He’s eaten the neighbor’s cigarettes that were irresponsibility left out on the deck and devoured a pound of baking chocolate.  Yet he still lives.  Now he’s stoned.  What should I do?  I grab the bag to see how much he actually ate.  It doesn’t look like too much.  I can’t take him to the vet.  Imagine an eight month pregnant woman walking into the vet office with a stoned dog and a bag of pot.  How do I explain that one without the cops being called?  Ya know, I figure the best thing is to feed him at this point.  He should be entering the hungry stage soon anyway.  Just then a pontoon boat pulls up onto the beach. 

     “Stacy, what are you doing?!  Is that marijuana?  You can’t use that when you’re pregnant…” Oh Shit!  It’s Mrs. Knows Everything and I have the bag of weed in my hand still.  I immediately talk over her and explain the situation.  “It’s not my pot.  I do not use marijuana.  Young Neighbor Rich Boy apparently left it on the beach when he borrowed the kayaks.  I just noticed it and I’m guessing Mr. Bones is stoned since it looks like he ate some.”  Now Mr. Bones is running in circles chasing his tail.  Mrs. Knows Everything and I start laughing.  Then she comments on my changing body, “You are really getting huge and perhaps a bikini at this stage isn’t the best attire for a soon-to-be mom.  You are showing too much cleavage.”  What?  I’m showing too much cleavage!  That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.  I simply respond to her by saying, “Thank you.”

     I take Mr. Bones up to the house and feed him some treats and fresh water.  He goes into his kennel and falls asleep.  An few hours later he is still sleeping.  About eleven o’clock at night I try waking him up to go outside and he just looks at me and goes back to sleep.  The next morning, I wake up and find a “normal” Mr. Bones ready to take on the day’s adventure.  That’s when I notice my neighbor, Mr. Camaro, soaking in our hot tub.  You would think if you had a Camaro, you may have your own hot tub.  I walk out to greet him.  “Good morning Mr. Camaro, strange thing to see you in the hot tub this early.”  Mr. Camaro says, “Well, I hear you are smoking the weed at eight months pregnant.”  Oh no…

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Parenting & Douches

Parenting & Douches

     After a day of working, I walk into the house and scream, “I can’t breathe!  I must take this bra off right now!”  The back clasp unleashes and I feel a rush of blood start flowing again.  How can I possibly go up two cup sizes in just seven months?  The nipples, oh the nipples, they seem to have taken on their own brain.  Just a little touch or brush of them and they stand totally at attention like never before.  I woke up the other morning to a spot on my shirt over the nipple area.  Yep, they are starting to leak a little.  God has created a totally miraculous process in reproducing a human being.  The amounts of changes that happen in just nine months are phenomenal.  This is why I know God is really an Alpha Female.  Only an Alpha Female would wish this much agony on other females in the mammal world.  How dare any of us lower females be better than the Alpha.  Therefore, you shall gain twenty-five pounds, have a perfect butt grow into a flapping-flat butt, and have the emotional stability of a three-year old.  Seriously though, I am very grateful to God for giving me the opportunity to carry another child and the ability to teach her the love and glory of life.

     In the household we have quite an age gap in the children.  Sweets has two kids who are in their mid to late twenties and their problems differ from our Middle-Schooler.  Now we’re adding an infant to the mix.  Perhaps we have a calling to be parenting experts or perhaps we are just plain nuts.  One thing I do know, you can raise each child the same and have all different outcomes in personality and discipline.  The only thing we can do as parents is do the best job we know how.  Being seven months pregnant has suddenly caused my ears to become quite sensitive and my moods very hard to control.  Now, as I’m relaxing in a bath tub full of bubbles, washing away all the work day stresses down the drain, I hear the word “douche” coming from downstairs.  Yes, another lesson on the terrible words middle school students use to hurt others.  Every once in a grand while we hear about the ongoings of the teenage social world: “So and so called me a lesbian – I’m not even a girl!  So and so said I have elf ears and that I should live on the North Pole cause no one wants me here.”  Brings back the memories of being called a Carpenter’s Dream, the Great Plains, or L.T. for little tits.  I’m assuming today someone was called a douche.  I hurry to get out of the tub so I can witness this precious son and father moment of the puberty years.

     Sweets explains to the boy, “Well in German, the word “douche” means shower.  In America, it has more of a slang term to it but still represents a shower of sorts.  Do you understand?”  What?  I don’t even understand where this is going.  Suddenly, the pregnancy rage of a mood sets in.  For what seems to be like ten minutes now, Sweets has been trying to explain what “douche” means to our Middle-Schooler.  I walk by them on the way to the kitchen to grab some more mini-powdered sugar doughnuts (I can’t get enough of these terrible treats right now) and proclaim to the two of them, “In America, a douche is a shower of a female part.  You stick this gadget up your vagina and squeeze out the solution to clean it.”  Then with my hands going upward in a volcanic eruption sort of manner, I elongate the pronunciation and say, “D-O-U-C-H-E.  Do you get it now?!”  The room is silent.  Both Sweets and our Middle-Schooler look right at me with mouths wide open and complete shock across their faces.  Middle-Schooler says, “You’re right dad, people should say ‘douche-bag’ instead of just ‘douche.’ These people don’t understand what they’re talking about.” I know, it’s not my best moment as a parent, but I can only do the best job I know how.  At least he understands what a douche really is now.  In my mouth goes a mini-powdered sugar doughnut and my pregnancy mood is back to an equilibrium of sorts.

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