Take a look at the two purses. Can you guess which one is more appealing to my 18-month old baby girl? If you guessed the fuzzy Elmo, you are beyond wrong.
Elmo was a Christmas gift from a good friend and an obvious cute choice for a one-year-old girlie girl. While my girl from the East loves Elmo and does tote this head-with-handles around on occassion, once she saw the heavin’ cleavage bag, nothing else would do. The bustier bag is a castoff from older girl from the West. I don’t think she ever carted around her cell phone and lip gloss in this atrocity. Where it came from I’m not sure. Where it landed is the trash can.
Until baby girl tugged it out and began dragging it around the house. What makes this such a poignant gesture on her part is her affection/obsession with mom’s er … breasts.
OK. OK. This is not a revelation here. Babies love them. That’s what they’re for — babies, mostly. We’ll not get into all that here. Since my baby girl came to us at 10.5 months and probably had never been breastfed, it was not an experience she would know. But she did know right off that between mom and dad, mom was squishier to hug due to her — accessories. Once she made this discovery, there was little to redirect her attention.
She also realized very early on that mom’s cleavage was a nifty place to tuck away Fisher Price Little People, Kleenex, lip balm tubes, pens. Basically whatever she had in hand or picked up.
Since my weight gain, I finally understand how convenient cleavage can be for tucking away stuff. I never used to get this when I was super-thin and basically lacking this feature. (I worked as a bank teller when I was in college and I’d marvel at the super-sized wallets that some well-endowed women would produce from between their breasts. I’m not talking about some teensy coin purse, I mean the kind with the build-in checkbook and calculator.) Long before baby, I found it to be a handy spot to temporarily stash sunglasses. I know, I know. Eech. But this is my reality at times.
In search of her own “accessories”, I’ve caught baby girl peering down her own shirt, wondering where her girls are.
I indulge her in this breast obsession. All part of the bonding experience, right? I figure we’ll work in the boundaries thing soon enough. Such as, when visiting grandma’s house, we don’t stick celery sticks down the front of grandma’s blouse.