By any other name...
We returned home tonight from a fabulous dinner out. I was totally stuffed, and my new bra (which made the girls oh-so-perky) was cutting me in half. I started shedding clothes on my way to my room to remove the offending garment, and snuggle into my cozy pjs. Let me remind you that:
#1) we have a very liberal nudity policy around the House of Southern Fried Fun
#2) being genteel Southerners and all, we are big fans of the euphemism...(body parts, bodily functions, sex and sex-related acts, diseases, scandal and scandalous behavior, and the like)
The boys refer to their package as their "goober." The accompaniments are known by various names, including nuts, the boys, balls, etc.
Since there is only one non-boy in the house, my stuff is known as "not a goober" and "boobies."
I will (and have) teach them age-appropriate, accurate information as the situation dictates. The President knows that his goober's "real name" is a penis. He seems to prefer goober & I'm fine with that. The President remembers me breastfeeding, and is aware that my boobies have a purpose & his don't. He will tell you that boys' boobies are just for decoration. He sometimes calls his tiny little nippley-area, "my decorations."
But it was his little brother who followed me into the bedroom. When I took off my bra, Fat Baby smiled & said, "A Goober!"
I said, "No, those are Mommy's boobies."
Staring in fascination, he said again, "Goober!"
"No, those are my boobies." (I'm wondering how on earth this kid has made the connection that all things private are grouped together in a set...)
Finally, he said, "And a Goober!" I looked down, and realized...the ceiling fan was on, air conditioner full-force, and my boobie had sprouted a goober, indeed.