Every now and then I ponder the limits I consciously place upon what I will and will not discuss here. I don’t do this very often because, frankly, there isn’t much I won’t talk about. If I’m asked a question, I’ll answer it. If I have something to share, I share it. That’s just the way I am.
But the one aspect I get twitchy about, and suspect this will increase as the years continue, is what I say about my children. My extended family hang on every skerrick of information I relate (naturally) and many of you are interested as friends at best and as the ‘innocently curious’ at worse (let’s just forget the trolls for a moment).
So just how I’m about to discuss this next subject has given me cause for pause, but in the end I decided, hey, it’s not that big of a deal. Or perhaps it is. My son, in years to come, I’m sure, will beg to differ.
I am still happy with my About Me page. Most of it is still relevant – everything except the shot of Riley in the highchair because, actually, I think the date he refused to eat there anymore was from when that photo was taken. The biggest issue which is still painfully (in many ways) active is…
…the boob groping.
He is an animal. Truly. Any chance he gets, anywhere, he cops a feel.
Take for example, story-time at the library several weeks ago. Crammed into a tiny space are a bunch of mothers and fathers, patiently rocking their babes as they quest for their progeny to absorb the English language, and we three sit in the middle. ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ is sung. All goes quiet as we wait for the next song.
Then my son slyly, slowly, creeps his little hand down the front of my top.
I pull it out and say, “No.”
He tries again.
“No.”
Then it gets ugly.
“No! MY boobies. They’re MINE. I WANT.”
About thirty pairs of eyes swing around in our direction and I manage to shush him, only to have the drama repeated over again thirty seconds later.
“GIVE ME BOOBIES!”
And suddenly I feel that we would be better off on stage, playing out our arguably Oedipal face-off in front of a paying audience. As he was getting further distressed, I felt like turning around to the other mothers to say,
“I hope none of you have any sharp objects on you, do you? No mini-sized nail cutters? Travel manicure kits? Because if this is a GREEK TRAGEDY about to unfold, I don’t want my son to get anywhere near them. There will be blood and eye-gouging.”
I’m waiting for him to grow out of this phase. Then again, if he’s anything like his father, he never will.
*Insert a resigned silence, with a sour twist of the mouth.*
