Boobs are the answer
My poor littlest guys is four months old, which means a four month check up, which means shots, which he had today. No kid likes shots, but it is especially hard to explain them to a baby. So to sooth his pain and make life better, I present to him; boobs. He’s been cranky most of the day from the shots, so most of the day I have presented him with boob to sooth him. As I looked down at him today, boob in his mouth, he grinned at me, and I realized, I am creating yet another boob-man.
You see, my other two sons are already boob-men, which I just attributed to the fact that their dad is a boob-man, but when I really think about it, I’m to blame for them being boob-men, after all, my boobs were the first ones they were obsessed with. My oldest son self-weaned at about 18 months. Every once in a while he’d check to make sure my nipples were still there. Once his brother was born though, he realized that “his” boobs were now being used by someone else, and that wasn’t okay (hey in what relationship is it?). So, back to the boob my oldest (two at the time) went and there I was, like any common farm animal, nursing multiple offspring. My oldest didn’t give up the boob so easily after that. I don’t remember when I finally got him to give it up, but I’m pretty sure he was close to three. Then I was down to one on the boob and I felt a little more human again. Not long after that that though, I got myself knocked up again and had baby number 3. My middle child was no where near ready to give up the boobs and was not happy to be sharing them again. Now I’m back to feeling like a sow with a piglet on each teat. Of course my husband complains that the boobs were his first and he’s been stuck sharing them with three other guys over the course of the past 4 1/2 years.
It isn’t just for the breastfeeding that my sons love boob though, it is the boob in general. I can’t take off my bra in a room with one of them around (their dad included) without one laughing and reaching for the boob. I can only imagine them as teenagers years from now. Again, it is my fault. After all, I have conditioned them to think that boobs are the answer to all life’s pains and problems (to which my husband would say “but isn’t it?”). They enter the world, they get boob. They are hungry, they get boob. Tired, boob. Gassy, boob. Scared, boob. Bored, boob. Hurt, boob. I’ve trained them that for just about any problem or any emotion that they have, boob will be given to them as the answer.
So, when my boys grow up to be boob ogling, grabbing, motor boating, obsessed fools, I’ll have to apologize to their girlfriends. Oh, and if I catch them looking at a copy of “Jugs” magazine when they’re teenagers, you better believe I’ll remind them that the first pair of boobs they were obsessed with were mine. Then I’ll show them that boobs really are the answer to everything; even boob obsession.