BOOBIES

That’s how I was greeted Saturday morning. My son laid his hands on my chest, patted firmly, and said “Boobies.”

“Yes, those are my boobies,” I concurred. “Are you ready to get up?”

“Daddy’s boobies.”

“Well, daddy’s boobies are still sleeping, sweet. We’ll have to wait until he gets up to see them.”

“Sorry, son. It’s Oedipal enough for you to be fondling my boobies, and I don’t think there’s enough Freudian analysis for the two of us if you start petting your grandmother’s boobies.”

“La-la’s boobies.”

“Does La-la have boobies? She’s the only lamb I know who has a belly button, so why not boobies?”

I haven’t nursed this child in a year, and he hasn’t shown any interest in my breasts before now, so what gives? Has his fascination with his own stickie-outie finally waned and he is now seeking other Bits To Be Entertained By? I’m sure this is normal, but what to do about it? He has become more and more interested in them over the last week, and I’m a little nervous that his Well-Endowed Preschool Teacher will wonder what kind of perverts we are when he sticks his icy cold little hand down her shirt and yells his famous war-cry.