Giving birth to my son 10 months ago changed my body in loads of ways. My waist is an inch thicker, my hair fell out and grew back tufty and my face now undeniably wears its 31 years. But the thing I miss most about my pre-baby body is my pre-baby boobs (breasts, tits, bangers - whatever you want to call them). Yeah, I know it's trivial. So what? It's true.
I've never been the epitome of body confidence but confident I was in them. They were pert, round, good. Good in the way Kit-Kats, Belle and Sebastian and Clare Balding are good - you can rely on their goodness, there's no anxiety about it. My boobs were just there, doing me a favour.
And now, after six months of breastfeeding? They're tired, diminished, done. Sort of just sitting there, a bit lower than they used to, the physical embodiment of a big sigh.
Their descent makes me sad, wistful even. I wish I'd been better to them - appreciated them more. Put them in bras that fit, been less scared of cleavage, sunbathed topless at least once. "But who cares about boobs when you've got such a beautiful baby?" people say when I bring up their retirement from goodness. Me, I think gloomily, I care loads. Weirdly, when you're a new mother vanity is roundly frowned upon.
Anyway, the bizarre - or seriously stupid - thing is, I genuinely didn't expect this. Women in my family had warned me, spouted about peaches becoming spaniel ears and what have you, but I thought maybe it wouldn't happen to me. Perhaps it was a generational thing that - like perms and home owning - would basically pass mine by. Plus, Instagram seemed to back up my theory. Victoria's Secrets models were just as perky post-pregnancy and after all we are the same species. I mean, technically.
However, everyone was right, I was wrong and now I spend an insane amount of time Googling firming creams and reading forums. It's desperate. The only thing I can't quite come to terms with about this new life and new body is the new boobs. I miss the old ones terribly.
Then I look at my son, a gleeful bundle of love, loud farts, giggles and peekaboo, and - cliched as it sounds - my dismay lessens. The trade off was spectacular. I'm besotted, blown away, #blessed. But do I still care about my appearance? Yes I do, and getting used to this body is going to take quite a while.