Hmmm … I knew it. Writing about willies has boosted my reader numbers. Which is why I’ve named this entry “boobies”. It’s an experiment. I predict that I’ll get over a hundred readers tomorrow just because of the word boobies. And it is indeed a funny word. I know grown men who will laugh themselves to tears over the word boobies, although for me it has become an everyday reference, as I have to tell nearly three-year old Tommy daily to get off my boobies – to which he replies “No Mummy! MY boobies!” That’s another thing about having a little boy – they remain attached to your bosom way past the breast-feeding phase. Little girls seem to let go easily but little boys fancy a fondle whenever they can get one.
You may think, from reading yesterday’s and today’s entries, that I have a strangely erotic relationship with my nearly-three-year-old. Nope. There’s nothing erotic whatosoever about a little boy shoving his chubby hand down your top and pinching you to death, not to mention those spiky little nails that seem to grow at a rate of knots, scratching your skin so that you shout “OW” a little too loudly and end up with tears all round. And there’s certainly nothing erotic about a session of décalotage (see yesterday’s entry) – quite the opposite. So put all that out of your sick little minds and concentrate on the point of this evening’s babble : BOOBIES. A word all mummies use to refer to their breasts. A children’s word. A ridiculous word. A word which sucks all sensuality out of breasts and replaces it with silliness. A word which should be the name of a clown in some family circus show, and probably is; hang on, let me quickly google “Boobie the clown” … pause for googling … oh, much to my surprise there isn’t one, just a load of Bobby the clowns – however, it’s just reminded me that”booby” is actually another word for clown. Fascinating. If you’re still reading , bare with me – I’ve drunk two glasses of champagne and two glasses of red.
I have just discovered that a booby is a bird. There are red-footed boobies, brown footed boobies and blue-footed boobies. Booby birds are powerful and agile fliers but they are clumsy in take-offs and landings. They are, however, spectacular divers. Hmmm. Like the common or garden human booby. Defying gravity is a lifetime ambition but in general our boobies tend to dive after a certain number of years and/or a certain number of children. I have a friend who’s boobies have ended up around her waist, and another whose second breastfed baby experience mysteriously re-pumped her breasts to Elle Mcpherson horizontality. I am counting on the latter where my future second child is involved.
Another thing about boobies and breastfeeding – after 18 months of a baby drinking milk from mine has left me with a funny feeling where fully grown men are concerned. It all just seems very odd nowadays. And ticklish too. Thank goodness L’Homme doesn’t ever read my blog, as if he did (and if he took the time to decipher ths strange language), he would be mortified that I was writing such a thing. So don’t translate this for him. Or actually, DO – that way he might take a vague interest in my writing. Sex, scandal, boobies = surefire subjects to get readers and one’s bloke to open their eyes.
A red-footed booby chick :