Monday, November 29, 2010
Lucy is a boob-hound. She is obsessed with boobs. If you hold her, or sit next to her it only takes a second for her hand to start snaking under your shirt to find your nipple. It's like hanging out with a fourteen year old boy. It happens so frequently that I don't even notice it these days, only registering a social gaffe when I see the person I'm talking to make the 'oh my God her child has her hand down her blouse and she's not even batting an eyelid' face. It's rather like having a dog that's not allowed on the couch. You swear you say no, but ten minutes later you realize you're not only sharing your seat with a dog, you're stroking it too.
The funny thing is it's not just my boobs she's after. She prefers mine, who wouldn't, but anyone's will do. And I mean anyone. We had to forewarn her current preschool, because a hand rooting around inside your bra can be quite a shock however small and innocent its owner. Then there's the fact that she will quite happily grab LK's nipple or even Anna's. Now that's funny. There they both are, a five year old and a two year old watching TV and Lucy has her hand on Anna's chest.
Obviously it's a comfort thing, and I fully expect it to disappear well before she heads off to college, it's just hysterical that she clearly doesn't know why she's fascinated with the boob.
I can't believe I'm writing all this stuff down as if it's completely normal. I think that sums parenthood up in a nutshell.