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Archive for March, 2010

Save the Muscles

Oh, wrong kind of muscles.

So the talkative two-year-old has somehow come to the understanding that women’s breasts are “muscles.”

That’s what she calls ‘em. Sure, it’s inaccurate, but then again it’s way more polite than: boobs, knockers, rack, headlights, jugs, hooters, tatas (for pete’s sake, breast cancer awareness people), or the one that begins with “t” and ends with “its.”

Wife, whose muscles shall remain uncommented upon in this space, doesn’t like the slang words for body parts and tries to teach the girls the real words. It’s a noble effort. It’s also led to some stunning comments from the girls, like the time at about age three when Elizabeth informed a dinner table full of folks, including my father, that her necklace was “so long it hangs all the way down to my vagina.”  And another time, when Wife was walking out of the house with the girls and I don’t know what they were talking about, but I heard Fontaine say, “That’s right, I forgot that Daddy doesn’t have a vagina.”

Anyway, the other day at pre-school, Rosebud evidently informed a woman: “You have big muscles.”

That evening, Wife set about educating Rosebud that “muscles” are called “breasts.” She explained to the older two girls: “We don’t want Rosebud going around telling women they have big muscles, do we?”

Fontaine thought about it for a moment: “So do we want her telling women that they have big BREASTS?”

Touche’. “Muscles,” it is.

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Good morning, we’d like to take a few moments between “Arthur” and “Martha Speaks” to bring you the pilot edition of a new reality show: Five-Year-Old Eye for the Straight Guy.
As you can see, today’s episode was shot at an upscale urban mall, when an unsuspecting father of three girls took Daughter Two/Princess One to help him pick out a new shirt, add a little freshness to his wardrobe.
First stop, Banana Crew. I reach up and pull out a – I don’t know, some checked or striped typical man’s boring predictable shirt.
“Daddy, are you thinking of that for yourself?”
No, Sweetie, just straightening it out.
Back into another room. I pick up a cleverly horizonally striped jersey shirt.
“Oh, good,” Daughter Two/Princess One says. “Another JAIL shirt.”
(Every time I put on a previous purchase from Banana Crew, a Rugby shirt, she calls it the “Jail Shirt.”)
I put it back. D2/P1 says, “I don’t like your jail shirt. I said that so you wouldn’t buy another one.”
Got it.
Discouraged, yet highly amused, I told her we should try another store. We headed to J. Public.
There, I fingered a black shirt – the kind that seem to be everywhere now, a faux military style (like you wouldn’t get your butt whipped in one of these, even if your sleeves were rolled up in a cool fashion), black.
“I knew you’d like that,” D2/P1 said, deadpan and monotone, “you have a gray one EXACTLY like it.”
As the words “RUNAWAY, RUNAWAY!” rang in my head, we walked out. As we passed a table of shirts, I thought one would look good on my wife. Do you think this would be nice for Mommy?
D2/P1 nodded immediately. “Definitely.”
We got home, and days later Wife still had not tried it on. I knew then that D2/P1 had met her match.
“I’m just not sure,” Wife said, “about this color.”

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