"Why does Mommy look gross naked?," my husband asks.
I lean in to hear the answer, too. I mean it's not everyday someone feels confident enough to comment on your body at the dinner table.
"The bumps on her stomach are super gross (pronounced GWOS)," he says.
"Belly button?" No. "Mosquito bites?" No. He then points to his nipples. I gasp at the table. He is talking about my boobs.
"Are you talking about my boobs," I shout. "They are NOT bumps, they're boobs, a lot bigger than bumps, and all girls have them!"
"Not little girls, they don't have them," he says confidently.
"No, but big girls have them and they're not gross," I confirm.
"What about sisters? Do sisters have them?" he asks, wide-eyed and, oh, so innocent.
"Is the sister younger or older?" I counter.
"Yeah, an older sister probably has them," I say.
"My Mommy looks gross naked, my mommy looks gross naked," he chants between laughs, taking the conversation full circle.
"Enough about Mommy being gross naked," my husband finally says, intervening. "Finish your dinner!"
This is our conversation at the dinner table. This is my life. I am defending my body, and its grossness factor, to a 4-year-old (and not very well, I might add). It only affirms the obvious, folks. I have no idea what I'm doing as a parent. Not a clue. Even my explanations about the world and how it works, comes out a little skewed, which leads me to believe therapy in the future is a given.
On the bright side, I do show up every day as a parent (usually dressed, in case you're wondering for the story referenced above) ready to tackle the world for my boys. I might not be perfect, but I am present. There's got to be some good in that, right? I've also still got my sense of humor, which is a good thing, because, apparently, I look really gross naked. Hee. Hee.