We are on the telephone, speakerphone turned on, so Grandmother can speak to Swee’Pea and TheMonk in one of her weekly attempts to sway the kids into providing for her in her old age.
Swee’Pea, who makes you earn her love, has run off to paint but TheMonk stays to play dress-up with a Barbie doll while talking to Grandmother, whom he affectionately calls, “Grand-numm-ah”
This particular conversation is soon after Grand-numm-ah had spent some time visiting our house. Soon after, she learned that privacy in the bathroom doesn’t exist in our house and locks are put on doors for a reason. TheMonk, perhaps honing his skills at an early age, will bust in on your shower any time he damn well pleases. And he’s observant.
The conversation begins to wane as TheMonk struggles to put a sparkly “Barbies a whore” blouse on the doll. He pauses to take in Barbie’s curves and asks, pointing at her incredible rack, “What are those called?”
I so want to tell him something that will mess his life up for a good long while. I want to tell him they’re “Chi-Chis” or “Bazookas” or “Tom and Jerry.” But my mother IS on the phone and that kind of stuff isn’t nearly as fun when your own mother is there to pass judgment so I tell the truth, “They’re breasts.”
“Oh.” says TheMonk. “Do I have breasts?”
“No,” I say. “You don’t have breasts. Only women get breasts like that.”
“Oh. Does Grand-numm-ah have breasts?”
“Um, yeah.” I say, trying to clear my mind of any visual that will cause me horrendous nightmares later.
And then, TheMonk, with all the enthusiasm a four-year-old can muster, shouts out…
“Yeah! And they’re HUGE!!!”
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