Were you at the grocery store Saturday morning? No? That’s too bad because I was there flashing my boobs.
Before you get all disappointed because you missed the show, I need to disclose some relevant information. My boobs could double as fried eggs. To say they are modest is a gross understatement. Yet, there I was letting the fried eggs poke out for everyone to have a titter.
How could I let this happen?
I blame Beast One and his recent fascination with zippers. It is not uncommon to go into his room in the morning only to find him sitting there completely starkers having unzipped both his sleep sack and his jammies.
He matter-of-factly points to his body parts and asks, “Wus tha?”
“That’s your wiener,” I say.
“That’s your bum.”
“Those are your boobies.”
On this particular morning, I was sporting my usual mom uniform: yoga pants and a hoodie-no socks, no bra. As far as I was concerned, I was ready for the grocery store. So, after our anatomy lesson, I dressed The Beast and off we went.
He was only in the cart for a split jiffy before he started writhing and yelling, “Down! DOWN!” He is not the type of kid who you can just let off the leash. He’s a runner, and he’s fast. So I bargained with him.
“You can get out of the cart, but I have to hold you.”
He agreed and then proceeded to wiggling like a cat in a burlap sack.
All the squirming and negotiating made me sweaty, so I set him down for one second to take my coat off and promptly picked him back up.
No one will notice I’m braless, I thought. We’ll steer clear of the produce aisle to be sure the nipples stay in-tact.
I walked around juggling the toddler and canned goods. As we turned down the frozen food aisle, The Beast started yelling, “WEE WEE! BUM BUM! BOOBIES!! BOOOOOOBIES!!!!!”
I shushed him like a hormonal teenager.
“BOOBIES! BOOBIES! BOOBIES!” he squealed with delight.
I planned to threaten him with no more snacks or fun EVER, but I got side tracked wondering, Why have my fried eggs gone from over easy to over hard?
Just then we passed a man right by the cornets and he burst out laughing and pointing.
“All right,” I said. “My kid’s got some choice words for his body parts. I get it. But do you have to laugh and point? You’re only going to egg him on.”
“Oh, I’m not laughing at him,” he said. “I’m laughing at you.”
I looked down dreading what I already knew. The toddler unzipped my hoodie and there were my fried eggs exposed for all the frozen food section to see. I ripped the zipper up fast enough to start a fire.
“Peek-a-boob,” the dirty old man chuckled.
And The Beast squealed, “BOOBIES! BOOBIES! BOOBIES!” all the way home.