Busy busy day; no time to blog. I've been doing preschool PTA stuff. Yeah, I'm so suburban these days. Another large chunk of my time is spent managing Bambina's classic 4 year-old remarks regarding babies-in-tummies of people who long ago ceased (or never began, being that they have man parts) menstruating. Or of how big someone's "boobies" are. Or asking when certain people are going to die. Or just saying the word "poopies" over and over again in public... It's a full-time job, y'all.
Nota bene that we don't discuss boobies at home, nor do we walk around saying "poopies" either. This is all playground stuff, and it is simultaneously quite humorous and also mortifying. Yesterday after her tap class we were watching people swim in the big pool. Bambina is not a fan of swimming, so watching from the window high above the pool seemed like a good way to let her see people swimming, talk about what frightens her about the water, etc. In the pool was an older lady, maybe 70s?, who had one of those prodigious "busts" that only ladies of that age seem to have. You know the kind? The kind they don't seem to make anymore in the natural variety, the kind you remember sinking into when you were a kid on your grandmother's lap? This was she. She was doing some kind of pool calisthenics that involved jumping up and down, so her chest had that signature buoyancy that such chests do (I've heard tell, since lord knows I don't have enough to float in a bathtub much less a pool). Bambina was absolutely transfixed on her breasts. Like, could not stop talking about them and asking about them. "Mama. Why are those things going up and down like that?" She knows what breasts are, but probably has never seen any so "healthy" (as my Dad used to say), and certainly not floating while moving up and down rapidly, so she was literally fixated for 15 minutes and I could not move her off the topic no matter what I said to normalize what she was seeing.
So I did what any decent mother would do. I bought her an ice cream sandwich out of the vending machine. No more loud musings about "how they got so big and floaty." And my dignity (and hopefully this poor lady's) intact.