Just one more post about boobs. Swearsy.

I'm not sure if it is some kind of boob divinity or coincidence that I've been so focused on breasts here on the interwebs (right, like this is a new thing) and Lil E has moved his focus northward as well. Whatever it is, it is officially the way in our cozy little home.

Or at least it has been in the last week. Soon, I am sure, his boobcentricity will go the way of Elmo, off to some lonely corner where stuffed animals and Thomas trains and (God help us) pacifiers collect dust and await the arrival of other expensive child things that you've hunted down in Target and airports and grandma's house fourteen times too many. For now, though, where it's at does not include eye contact.

Lil E has not only noticed boobs in general like some three-year old epiphany, he's (erm) seemed to notice mine.

I know, I know. This is weird.

But if you have kids, you know that once they emerge,
your breasts are officially given over. If you breastfeed, you are at
the mercy of every crying child and waterfall within fifty feet, not
just the hungry one on the Boppy in front of you. And then, course,
there are the pokes and pats and lovely little heads with wispy curls
and sweet beads of sweat sleeping peacefully at your chest. Yes, it is all worth it.



And then, when the day comes that the child is weaned and the grief of
that has mercifully passed, when your breasts become your own again.
Not the same, but still, your own.



For me, now just baby steps away from a finalized divorce, I put on a
little pink satin or black lace happily every morning for myself. These
are no man's bosoms. Not that they ever belonged to a man (oh God no), but somehow there is a freedom having my boobs all to (ummm...) myself.



That is, until last week. Until last week when I was bandaging up Lil
E's knee. He, skinny and speckled with strawberry popsicle droplets,
was standing in front of me, sitting on the bathroom floor in a tank
top and yoga pants.



I believe we were talking about baby dinosaurs when he paused, stood
silently for a moment and then said in the calmest little voice,
"Mommy, I like your boobs because they are big. Oh, and pinky."



I looked around. It was a moment with words spoken just quiet enough
but that speak a bit uncomfortably loud. And then I just said the first
thing that came to mind.



"Well, you inherited that, honey. It can't be helped." And then I did
what I had to do -- launched right back into the baby dinosaurs.



Sure, it's a little bizarre when your child recognizes the differences
in your bodies, especially when I'm representing for all females in
this house and he's standing up for the males. And I get that it means
he's processing all those questions of gender and biology and
developing a health body awareness and sense of self. I'm good with
that.



I just wasn't prepared for the commentary on my rack.



Still, it may mean that we've moved on from from Lil E's obsession of
the week before. Yes, that would be what he insisted were "round bones"
(it will come to you in 3...2...1... yes, those under there)
and now is referring to by their formal term "besticles." Following at
least ten intensive discussions about the round bones, their
terminology, purpose and continued confusion about why in the world I
wouldn't have some of those myself to swing around in front of the
closet door mirror, I think perhaps the compass on the conversation
really has turned.



Even though I may go on and on here, I certainly do have my boundaries.
Sometimes, I even have boundaries about my boobs. I can accept the love
taps with the love in which they are intended. And God bless his honest
little soul, the frat-boy-with-puppy-dog-eyes-in-training comments
simply need to be given the nod and pass right to dinos.



And so there it is: Testicles to tits to T-rexes.



That's how we do around here. That's how we do.

* For the record, I'm not sure the Boob Man tees are funny anymore. Sure, at the first 800 viewings, I laughed out loud. Now? Hmmm. Not so much. Instead, I've chosen to embrace them in an ironic sort of way, so let's go with that.

Comments

[Mat]

Oh that's too funny. You do know that once a male notices boobs, they never (NEVER) go the way of Thomas the Tank Engine or Pacifiers? I mean... c'mon, we're obsessed. Thankfully Lil E will not remember asking about your boobs when he's a teenager and interested in boobs other than yours. And hopefully you won't either! :)