Please welcome a post by the lovely Michelle of Mamaspod (Where we do podcasted reviews of places and life in Seattle. She’s UBER fun.)

Several weeks ago, we went to an outdoor performance at a local park. My son enjoyed the juggling and we both took in some serious Vitamin D on this sunny, sunny day in the Northwest. It was beautiful. Crowded, but still great fun. We ran into a friend and her almost 3-year-old daughter. Her daughter had recently broken her leg after an accident on the playground.  So that day she was riding in style around the park- wagon all decked out to accommodate her cast- she seemed to be adapting well even though it only happened a few short days before.  So of course seeing his friend in a cast prompted questions from my son. So we had a long (and extremely repetitive) conversation about how she got herself into that cast and when she could get out of it. Here are the highlights:

Him: How long does she have to wear the cast on her leg?
Me: I think for about 6 weeks.
Him: WOW, that’s a long time.
Me: Yes, it’s almost 2 months; it takes the body a while to heal.
H: Why does she have to wear the cast to heal?
Me: The cast holds her leg still and keeps the bone in the right place and then new bone grows and fixes the broken bone - blahblahblah - science stuff - blahblah- way too much information for a 4 year old- and done.
H: How does new bone grow? (Probably saying this while simultaneously laughing on the inside as he forces his poor old mother to remember back to her college anatomy days in an effort to try and provide accurate information to someone who probably isn’t even listening and even if he was wouldn’t know what the hell she was saying anyway- but yet, I feel compelled).
Me: Your body uses the vitamins, minerals, and nutrients inside of it to create new bone. Isn’t your body incredible?! And your brain helps tell your body where to make the new bone! Our bodies are amazing, aren’t they?!?!
H: Yeah… and also… (without skipping a beat)... My penis is AMAZING.

** sigh **  Proof that men are born that way, people.

And that was the end of that conversation- all of that teaching and effort for not.  What more could be said?  Somehow those boys always circumnavigate the conversation right on back to their “member”- whether they are 4 or 40 it never fails.  I just changed the subject resolving to the fact that I had birthed “another one” into the world.

...Some time passed…

Then recently, my son was taking a bath while I hopped in the shower right next to it.  As I was stepping out of the shower to towel off, he yelled to me that he was all done and made it clear he wanted out- NOW!  So, I grab my towel and quickly wrapped up and helped him get out and dry off too.  As I am standing there drying him, my towel flies open- as they always do (Remember those towels/cover-ups that our moms used to have that had Velcro on the side to hold it closed? - Yeah, I am going to personally make sure that those make a come back- especially after this)...  So as my towel flies open I see my son…  staring… at The Girls.  He stares a while and I ignore him just trying to get him dried off.  He stares some more- I try to cover up again with no luck.  I am sort of hunched over him drying his hair when he says (looking up), “What are THOSE??”

Crap, here we go…

And because you now know I am all about providing accurate information (as best as I can) and anatomically correct names, I say, “Those are my breasts”. 

“Oh ok”.  Easy enough. I thought I was in the clear.  Oh no, not a chance. 

“Do you sleep with those on?”  He asks inquisitively.

“Uhhuh”.  Christ.

“You mean they don’t come OFF?!?”,  he squeals in horror.

“Nope, they are permanent”.  I sigh as I look down at the fleshy flapjacks before me in all their glory, trying to hurry and finish toweling him off so this frightening peep show can be over.  As I catch a glimpse of them from above in my super awkward hunched over angle I realize now why no woman should ever, EVER, agree to be on top in the missionary position anytime after the age of 30 and after having birthed and breastfed even one child.  Don’t DO IT- no matter how much they beg.  You know it isn’t pretty people.  The only reason I am still a DD is because before I fasten my bra I roll up each one like a cannoli and stuff it into the cup giving only the appearance of perky.  The only way I can describe them is like a couple of bivy sacks with two lemons dangling at the bottom of them.  Add in a couple of pesky nipple hairs, a few ever-popular stretch marks, and VOILA! 

So after assuring my son that those “dingle dangles” {as he referred to them that day) actually don’t come off, he asks why he doesn’t have any breasts. 

I told him technically he did, but that men and women are made “differently…” blah blah blah and that “our bodies are all unique”... blah blah blah. 

To which he says, “Yes I know, our bodies are amazing”.  “And Mommy”, (he says while pointing at me and probably remembering our previous conversation a few weeks earlier about broken bones and our incredible bodies), “I just have to tell you, those breasts are AMAZING!” 

Ahh, from the mouths of babes.