Pants are pointless.
Bras are futile.
Pants and bras together are some like kind of elaborate torture device attacking either end of my ever-expanding uterus. Simultaneously. In cotton-blend.
Pre-preggo WallyMummy would live it up in matching bra and knickers and everything. I know. Just like a real girl… Or one of those ones from telly… Or dreams… Or Narnia.
Frankly, these puppies were well past the ‘hoistable’ stage once the last milk vampire was finished with them… but following yet another expansion; my areolas are now the size of doughnuts, and the texture of lego… a little beyond the smoothing abilities of a standard M&S t-shirt bra.
My muffin-top has become a full blown cake-plateau. There is no knicker line that flatters spherical. And anyone who thinks their post-pregnancy perineum will so much as let them utter the word ‘thong’ has got a nasty surprise awaiting them.
And enjoy thongs while you can.
Because soon your vagina will just say no.
And your labia will eat them.