New trimester, new record highs

My iPhone app bleeps happily at me as I ride the train into work.  'You are entering your third trimester'.  Already?  No wonder I'm snoring harmoniously for my fellow travellers and waking up just before my stop only to walk straight past work to the little M&S for a record-breaking 3rd breakfast of the morning. 

The little wrigglers kick up a storm against my ribs as I choose a tub of pineapple pieces.  I stroll longingly past the cheese, pondering what it might look like if I just munch away on a big chunk of it at my desk while I check my emails.  I settle on the share-size pack of flapjacks.  The admin staff will appreciate my leftovers and the bite sized bits will do me well as I can feel so full so fast but for such a short period of time.

Breakfast time was one of the first big differences I saw in myself when I discovered I was pregnant.  Breakfast suddenly became less of a meal and more of an all-consuming desire.  I'd lust after raisin bran.  But one breakfast never felt enough.  I'd follow that up with fruit and yogurt.  Thom now regularly brings in berries on a Saturday morning for the fruit breakfast.  So much so that we thought we ought to name one child Raspberry and maybe the other one Strawberry.

Now the main breakfast and the fruit breakfast don't seem enough.  Third trimester calls for three breakfasts.  I'm keen on the wrigglers packing on some lovely baby fat and, hell, I still fit into the skinny maternity trousers, so why not?  Upstairs is a different story.  

Third trimester has meant a third incease in bra size.  Gave up last weekend and went searching for something less squeezey and pinchy.  The previous ones, which once seemed so huge now felt like torture.  Now the ones that fit me are located in the way, way back of the lingerie section.  Past the lacy, pretty, cool ones into the deep, dark recesses of the department.  Less lovely lighting as there is no need to get a better look at the mono-toned architecture back there.  I choose the next size up and it looks like... well, cue Thom, the only fan of the curse of pregnancy boobs.

'At least afterwards we could use the cups as a tent,' Thom chimes in.  Yes, they look like tents.  But there is no sense arguing against the discomfort any more.  Me and my tent-sized bra are going to forget it and have some nice cheese for third breakfast.