Thirty years ago, I was pregnant with my son Nick and we were living in Regina, Saskatchewan where one of the great sporting activities was watching your tires go square when it's 40 below. I loved being pregnant. I ate litres of Haagen Daz ice cream, didn't worry about fitting into my skinny jeans, and happily spent my days watching reruns of Dallas . What I didn't love was what being preggers did to my boobs. As my stomach grew, so did they; they grew and grew and grew. They reminded me of a children's book I read once. It was called The Monster Cheese Which Ate Lake Louise. I didn't mind them really, because finally they fulfilled a purpose and that was to fatten up my special little boy. Trouble was, they were too big and Nick lived in danger of being smothered to death. Him and the cats. Anyway, I continued to persevere with the whole breastfeeding thing, and managed to give him nourishment for three or four months. I had milk, boy did I! I had so much...
More than a million served!