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Can I Tell You Something?

Weevy says “Can I tell you something?” at least a couple of times every day. And you never know what’s going to come out of her mouth after.  Sometimes, she may actually want to tell us something. Sometimes, it turns out to be a question: “Can I have something to eat?” Often as not, it’s about something she and her friends did in whatever computer game they’re currently obsessed with. It often makes no sense to me, but I nod and act excited and try to understand what the hell she’s talking about.

Once in a while, though, “Can I tell you something?” turns out to be a real gem.

Last week, Weevy and I were looking through old photos on my phone — something she loves to do, because I refuse to put her favorite apps on my phone. The result of that, we both know, would be that any time we’re outside and away from her computer or iPad, she’d steal my phone and I’d be left twiddling my thumbs while she ignores me. This has happened more than once, and it drives me completely fucking bonkers. But looking at old photos together is a fair compromise. Sometimes.

Anyway, a photo popped up from, I believe, the summer of 2014, when Weevy was four. My spouse taken Weevy and her then-besty to Central Park for some something-or-other and both kids had gotten their faces painted. The pic in question shows Mommy holding our painted daughter, wearing a low-cut shirt, and looking… I believe the scientific term is boobalicious. I mean, she’s no Dolly Parton or anything, but this pic showed some pretty excellent cleavage.

In the intervening four years, my wife’s physique has changed quite a bit. She discovered the “joys” of strict dieting and rigorous regular workouts. Half a dozen hard boiled egg whites and two protein bars for breakfast? Nom-nom!  Deadlifts and squats and other odious endeavors three times a week?  Wheeee!  It’s not exactly my bag — she once asked me if I wanted some tips from her dietician, and I blurted out that “the way you eat seems so joyless that I could never do it.” But I have to give her credit, it has not been in vain. In her newly toned and svelte state, clothes she was bulging out of a year ago are swimming on her now. Her new outfits tend toward the tight and form-fitting, and they look — SHE looks — fabulous.

And yeah, her boobs have shrunk.  A lot.

As a red-blooded heterosexual cisgender male, I have no problem with this. Small boobs, big boobs, post-mastectomy boobs, as long as they’re in the right place, I will ogle my wife’s chest area.  But the shrinkage is definitely noticeable. And not just to me.

“Daddy,” can I tell you something?” Weevy asked on a crowded 7 train.  “Sure,” I said. If she was going to ask me for food, she was out of luck. No restaurants on the subway, after all.

“Mommy used to have really big bosoms,” she said, a little too loudly for the setting. Just in case the dozens of people within earshot missed it, she repeated: “Mommy’s bosoms were really big.  I call them bosoms because that’s what they call them in Matilda [the classic book by Roald Dahl she’s presently reading].

“I saw that picture on your phone, where she’s holding me? And her bosoms were really big. What happened to them?”  I kept my eyes on Weevy, for fear of seeing everyone around me cracking up.

“Well, she started working out, and she lost weight everywhere, including her, um, bosoms.”

“Well, they used to be really big.”

And I thought that was the end of the conversation.  I was wrong.

“I don’t have bosoms.”

“No, not yet, but you’ll have them when you’re older.”

“You don’t have bosoms.”

“Thank goodness. I’m not supposed to have bosoms.”

“Grandma has Grandma bosoms.”

Had we not been on a crowded train, I might have said something, like, “You mean old and saggy?” But I tried to maintain decorum and simply said, “Yes she does.”

“Grandpa has bosoms!  He has man bosoms.”

You know, of all the things she could choose to talk about on the 7 train, boobs — sorry, bosoms — would not have been my top choice. Man-boobs would have been even farther down the list. But Weevy clearly had bosoms on the brain, and honestly, I can’t blame her. It’s a fascinating, and, er, titillating subject.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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