As a watch, mortified, while my daughter molests my mother’s boobs, I remind myself: you asked for this. I did ask for it. While she was in my womb, I begged and pleaded that she’d grow up to speak her mind, be inquisitive and want to learn about anything and everything. I asked that she and I have a relationship where we could talk about the female body openly and not feel ashamed of what’s needed for the “upkeep.” I asked for it and I got it. But, sitting here and watching her poke the shit out of my Mom’s boobs just strikes me as odd.
This boob obsession of hers only started a few weeks ago. She’d poke my left boob as hard as she could and pronounce with her little toddler voice, “Ma, what’s that?!” She asked almost every day for a week, and each time I did the rundown: they’re breasts, they’re special, they’re mine, and they used to feed you milk. The end. She would then look at her own little non-teets, look at mine again, and go about her business. She hadn’t asked for days, until we went to visit my parents. All of a sudden, Breast season was back and with a vengeance.
Since I come from a family that didn’t speak with me about sex until I was 16, and about menstruation until I actually got it (16 again), I was torn during this session of mammary inquisition. I had my daughter who has been taught to learn all she can and be as curious as possible and my mother who, well, wasn’t taught that. I wanted to intervene, but like a train wreck, I knew it would be more entertaining to watch. It was. I laughed. And I was proud. Proud of my girl and beaming with anticipation over the woman she’ll become one day. It also reminded me to keep her out of the bathroom when her brother’s in there. How fun will the penis talk be when my husband has to explain all of that to her? I’ll keep you all posted on that development.