Aislyn and I were playing catch with a cloth, probably cotton-stuffed baseball (a toy from Baby Desmond days). She got too close to me, and accidentally got me in the chest.
“You hit my boob!” I said, pretend-indignantly.
She laughed, and proceeded to target my breast on her next throw.
Yes, I know. She was motivated by my silly reaction; not my actual boob. Maybe.
She has a somewhat unnerving fascination, though, with my breasts. I don’t know if it’s because I breastfed her for four months, or if she’s just a total nut job.
But she’s always staring, asking me questions (“Mama, why do you have boobs?” “Why are your boobs so big?” “What are boobs for?” “Where are my boobs?”), trying to cop a feel as I deflect her hands, sputtering, “Hands to self, HANDS TO SELF!”
Desmond didn’t ever do that, and I breastfed him for a year.
All I can think is it’s because she’s female and curious about her own body.
But I didn’t think that started until much later.
Anyway, I do try to explain things to her in a way I think she’ll understand. Like, the other night, she wanted to know the purpose of breasts. I told her they were to make milk for babies, that I had done it for Desmond and her, that she might do it for her children someday.
But she follows up questions with even more questions, until I get tired or to the point where I can no longer answer.
“But how does the milk get there?”
“It happens right after the baby is born. Having the baby tells your body that the milk needs to be there. So the baby has food.”
I almost think she’s looking for the actual, biological process of human milk production from me, with, like, diagrams and stuff. I don’t remember.
I get to the point where I have to say, “Just cus, honey.”
No, usually I just say, “I don’t know, either. You’ll find out when you’re a grownup.”
Maybe I should show her Wikipedia.
That was a joke. I promise.