Let me preface this by saying that as a mother you have to be willing to sacrifice all modesty in child rearing.
I took my daughters to the park this morning. Simone is an awesome little girl. At just 11 months, she's growing to be about 4 inches taller than your average t.v. table from head to toe. Still, she's gotten to be very clumsy learning to stand with her awkward legs.
I was sitting down next to Simone on our picnic blanket, while Sadia was off digging up buried treasure in a nearby sandbox. Back on our pallet, I was more or less a scaffold for Simone, rather than a blanket buddy. She was discovering a treasure all her own. For the first time at the park, she was attempting to stand apart from me or anything else holding her up.
Sometimes, when she notices that she's been free standing for a while, she thrusts both hands into the air and begins bouncing up and down with her knees slightly bent in celebration. Her eyes light up and she cracks a smile from here to the moon. Ordinarily, I can't help but to join in on the laughter. However, on this particular occasion, smiling had escaped me.
After a few successful stints at free standing, Simone was feeling quite bold. Her celebrations grew more elaborate. She had begun to incorporate clapping into the routine-- a sure sign of the proverbial haughtiness preceding the fall.
Thus, I had resisted the urge to reach out and buffer her as she was falling over. What a perfect opportunity to seize this teachable moment. Thinking that I would gently guide my youngest into understanding the value in never becoming too sure of herself, I withheld my hand of support. After all, a child needs to know her limits, right? WRONG!
At some point in her celebration, Simone began to tetter. She extended her tiny little hands out towards the closest thing she could grab, in a struggle to brace herself. That thing just so happened to be my unpretentious breast. Hear me when I say that when the child looked up and saw that I wasn't going to try and prevent her from falling, she literally took matters into her own hands.
In an effort to cinch her balance, Simone grabbed a fistful of my left boob, now emaciated from years of nursing. Her fingers, like five miniature carabiners locked onto my bust, anchoring her feet securely to ground.
Now if this whole scene had played out just a few years earlier, girlfriend would have had a time wrapping her little fingers around my girls. She would have been on her own. However the fact that she could, with her infinitesimally small hands, get a good grasp of my lady bumps only emphasizes the sheer utilitarianism of it all.