Toddlers, butt-cracks and bosoms

Wrong! They are mushrooms.

Working late one evening, two sleepy toddlers snuggled against my chest, as I read our fourth bedtime story.  At the end of the story, the three of us sat in a moment of rare silence.  Suddenly, the eldest, a curious fellow of four, leaned back, took both of my breasts in his hands, gave them a considerable ‘honk’, and said…

“Nanny, what do you call these big things?”

Here we go.

“These are Nanny’s fluffy bits.” I said casually, removing his hands and snuggling him again.

“Mommy says they are for feeding tiny babies.  You don’t have any tiny babies.  So, what do you use your fluffy bits for?” he inquired.

Smart toddlers…can’t live with them.  Can’t use dog crates and duct tape.

“You’re right, smart boy.  I explained.  Mine are built-in safety devices.  You see, if I fall forward, I would bounce right back up without hurting myself.  When I go swimming, I never have to remember floaties…mine are attached!  When I’m not falling or floating, I can use them as pillows for people I love.”

“That’s neat!”  He said.

This prompted the boy’s younger sister to grab the top of my shirt with both hands, pulling it roughly away from my body to inspect what was hidden beneath.  She sucked in her breath sharply.

“Nanny…why is your bottom way up here?”  She shrieked, as she stuck one tiny finger directly into my cleavage.

At first I didn't understand what she meant....

Note: These are not mine...unfortunately

Note: neither of these are mine...fortunately

But now her point has become crystal clear.

This conversation has undeniably headed south, from “Goodnight Moon” to cleavage and butt-cracks at an alarming rate, which is a clear indicator of immediate bedtime.  However, when I kissed the four-year-old goodnight, he appeared to have one last comment…

“Nanny, when I grow up, I want to have great big fluffy bits just like you.” he says with a yawn.

Oh crap…here we go again.

“Well, honey…Boy’s don’t usually grow great big fluffy bits.” His eyes filled with tears and he began to sob uncontrollably.

“It’s not fair…I want big fluffy bits too!” He wailed.

I sat next to him on the bed, and in a hushed tone, said “But I didn’t tell you the worst part of having big fluffy bits yet.  I thought your little sister might be afraid.” He immediately stopped crying, excited that he might harbor secret information before his little sister.

“What is it, Nanny?”  He asked, eyes wide.

“It’s the horrible contraption we have to wear every single day to tie them down and keep them out of the way.  It’s called…

"The Over-the-Shoulder-Fluffy-Bit-Holder":

"It's made of rubber bands, rope, nails, wire, hot glue and poison ivy."

“Can I see it, Nanny?”  he asked.

“No, sweetheart.  But ask your Mommy tomorrow, and maybe she will show you hers.”

“I don’t want to wear one of those.”  he said, before rolling over to go to sleep.

“Me either, Bud.”

He seems to have accepted this unfair difference between the sexes and no longer laments his woeful lack of large fluffy bits.  A few days later, he created this moving portrait of he and I together, which now lives on my refrigerator.

It is entitled:

ODE DE HEAFTY FLUFFY BITS:  NATURE'S CRUEL AND UNCOMFORTABLE TRUTH

notice that I am not smiling