My life as a giant pink marshmallow

Recently I was going through a huge box of photos and found a picture from one of my brother’s weddings. It was of my entire family–and dude, there are A LOT of us. As I scanned across the sea of familiar faces I stopped on one I didn’t recognize. I mean, she *looked* like someone I should know, but I couldn’t put my finger on who she was. She was a heavyset woman with a bad haircut, tired looking eyes, and a smile that said Please Hurry And Take This Fucking Photo I Need To Poop.

I looked to the right of her and saw my husband standing there, holding an infant.

I stared at the woman again. She was wearing a pink satin dress like the one the bridesmaids were wearing.

And then it hit me. The woman I didn’t recognize WAS ME!

OH MY GOD, Y’ALL. I RUINED MY BROTHER’S WEDDING PHOTO!

I remember it now.

It was June of 2002. I’d just given birth in April. I begged BEGGED my sister-in-law PLEASE, you don’t want ME in your wedding right now! But she said she couldn’t imagine me not standing at the front with her. I sighed. And then agreed.

The bridesmaid dresses were made of light pink satin which made me look like a giant pink marshmallow.

I was carrying thirty pounds of baby weight and my boobs were the size of bowling balls. I was going on zero sleep and I’d cut my hair short to make it “easier” to deal with.

The whole 30 seconds it took for me to walk to the front of the chapel I felt everyone’s eyes on me. I wondered if they could hear my thighs rubbing together. I was grateful the music was so loud.

Once the ceremony started I worried less about how I looked and focused on my brother and his wife. The service was beautiful.

And then.

My baby started to cry.

Which triggered my milk-filled boobs.

I felt the letdown.

And then watched in horror as TWO LARGE ROUND WET SPOTS appeared on my chest.

I raised my bouquet higher to try and cover up the fact that I was now drenched in breast milk. This plan worked fine until the ceremony was over and I had to walk down the aisle again and past the 200 or so guests. I looked at my mother whose mouth was agape. Apparently it was quite obvious that I was right then at that moment dispensing milk.

Thanks a lot, newborn baby.

The worst part was that it wasn’t like I could go to the reception and have two or eleven glasses of wine to drown my humiliation. No. Instead I took my crying baby to the ladies’ room, pulled my pink satin dress up and around my neck and nursed her until she passed out, drunk on milk.