boobies

This evening the entire family gathered around the table and smothered our faces in fresh, ripe young …. boobies.

Sometimes, when we are feeling decadent, we like to squirt whipped cream on them for flavor enhancement. Yesterday we mixed it up with a scoop of ice cream and a dollop of heavy cream. We just can’t seem to get enough.

Please don’t think I’ve stooped to a new low in order to attract attention to this humble little blog.

What I’m really talking about are these:

Not these:

For god’s sake, what kind of people do you think we are anyhow? I’ll have you know we are vegetarians!

Anyone who’s maneuvered a pre-schooler through the language development phase knows that simple, simple words are fertile territory for producing “Oh.No.” moments. We had just gotten past the knife, “fuck” and spoon cycle. And the we-tell-time-by-looking-at-the “cock” stage. And now here we are, fumbling in the “booby” zone.

The “boobies” thing is out of control.

Back story: Somewhere along the way, we started sprinkling blueberries on her yogurt. These quickly were renamed “booobies.” Then raspberries came into season. Still, it was “booobies.” Now, it’s strawberry time and the passion is mounting.

It’s gotten so that I run through the produce section and quickly grab a package of strawberries before Girl from the East can spot the mounds of red berries and bellow: “BOOOBIES! MOMMA, ME WANT BOOOBIES.” for all the hear and process.

Redirect and correct, you say? We’ve slowly pronounced and enunciated the word strawberry to her. Over and over. It’s not working.

I pray for autumn.