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.
MyThreeDaughters 