I may be about to tread dangerously close to crossing that line of things you don't want to know about me, but, we're all girls here, right?
I dunno. Pretend.
So, the other night I was undressing for bed and India was in my bedroom talking to me. I took off my shirt and then my bra, and ladies, you know that glorious moment when the bra comes off and it feels so damn good and you give a stretch and a rub where that stupid wire has been squeezing you all day long? Well, I'm stretching and rubbing and reaching for my pyjamas, when India looks at me with her little face all scrunched up in desire and she says, "Momma, can I please touch them too?"
"No. You can't, India. They're private."
"Please, Momma. Please."
"I'm never going to get boobies. It's not fair."
"You'll get them, India. Every girl does when they're older."
Good grief. That's what I say.
I suppose this conversation is an improvement from the complete lack of conversation about boobies that I had with my own mother - she didn't even notice I had grown a set so I went and got my own first bra from my older cousin's hand me downs - but sheesh, the girl is five. Next she's going to be reading, Are you there God? It's me, Margaret and doing her bust exercises.
Hold on to your hats. Or boobies. Life is going to get tricky in no time flat. (!)