How Bottle Feeding Screwed Up My Sons

With children in tow, even the most mundane of activities becomes an adventure (or a scene). Take our recent outing to Target. The plan was to pick out a birthday gift for a four-year old buddy of Deal's, but the trip turned into an anatomy lesson. With me as the live model.

Bird, Deal, and I were walking hand in hand (which by the way, delights me to no end). We walked past a rack of bras in vivid colors, polka dots, stripes, and argyle prints. Ha ha, I just used the word "rack" in a sentence about bras! Dang, I am funny without even trying. I kill myself.

So as we traipse by, Deal stops, stares intently, his dark brown eyes with excruciatingly long lashes moving side to side as if watching a tennis match. Then he exclaims, "Mommy, I think you need to get the blue one with the green polka dots for your things hanging on your body!"

Then I, of course, stopped dead in my tracks. My eyes darted all around to gauge who was within earshot. That particular Target is across the street from Mac Daddy's office, so with my general good fortune, I expected to see his boss in the One Spot right next to me. As luck would have it, the only people laughing at me were strangers, which was good because things got a whole lot better.

Bird, in his all-knowing five-year old brilliance, tells Deal, "Those things hanging off Mommy are her hips!" He practically spit when enunciating the "s" in hips.

So then Deal says, "Well, Mommy, buy the polka dot one of those for your hips."

Mind you we are all still standing hand in hand in the middle of the aisle. Apparently embarrassment leaks out through your soles because I was still glued to the floor. I could have easily just nodded my head in agreement, shooing the boys on the to the toy department. That would have been the easy road, which I tend not to take. I just couldn't let my sons confuse breasts for hips. I knew not breastfeeding them was bound to fuck them up somehow!

I inhaled deeply and told the boys, "Actually, they are called breasts. My hips are here." (requiring me to drop their hands so I could gesticulate and put my hands on my hips)

Their eyes bugged out of their darling little heads.

They both uttered "Breasts?!" in disbelieving unison.

"Breasts." I said, emphatically overstating the "s."

I thought I was out of the bra strewn woods, ready to move on.

That's when Deal asked, "So what are those round pointy things on there, those other things on your breasts?"

"Nibs!" exclaimed Bird with sheer exasperation.

I give up.