Both of our kids were breastfed until about 2.08 seconds after they bit the ever loving CRAP out of me.
And then we switched to formula.
I’m no wimp, but both of our kids had mouths FULL of teeth by six months.
(Exhibit A: Averi with two teeth on bottom and at least two on top by six months old.)
My breasts were basically giant chew toys. Ok, so “giant” is a gross misrepresentation of the truth.
(Aaaaaaaand, I think we just lost my dad.)
I’m no prude, and I’m definitely on board with the whole breastfeeding thing — again, up to the point that the kid bites me and/or they want to put me on the cover of a magazine breastfeeding an 8-year-old.
Then I think it’s just a bad idea.
But, I was getting dressed the other day in my usual manner. I tried on fifteen different shirts — throwing each “no” onto the bed, the dresser, the chest, the doorknob. Basically anywhere but back on the hanger where it belongs.
I was mid shirt-change when our two-year-old walks over to me, reaches up, and squeezes not one but BOTH of my breasts at the same time.
Of course, the first thing that went through my mind was to cover them. Fast!
The next thing was to push my eyeballs back into their respective sockets.
And the third thing was to say, “Well, it looks like daddy needs to be a bit more careful around the two-year-old!”
I’m not kidding you when I say that the very same day, our 11-month-old daughter reached her hand into my shirt, then into my bra, and flicked me.
I started to look around for Ashton Kutcher.
“I’m being Punk’d, aren’t I?”
And then I remembered I’m not famous.
And that this is not 2006.
Hahahaaha! Not too long ago (a few months, maybe), Roran was sitting on the bathroom counter while I fixed his hair. (I was fully dressed, btw.) He reached up, stroked my chest and said, “I like you fings, Mommy.” To which I replied, “Thank you baby. Don’t ever touch them again.”