Princesses, Belly Dancers, and Boo-Boos

The snow has taken its toll on all of us here. We’re ready for Spring. We’re ready for full school weeks. We’re ready for not freezing our butts off and being stuck in the house together and sniffly noses and all that crap that comes along with it. According to the daughter, “We need Spring, because my Winter coat is tired.”

Mine, too. Mine, too.

Thankfully they are getting to the age where they are starting to be capable of playing nicely together. Sometimes for hours on end I have the peace of not being hollared/screamed for every two seconds. It’s quite liberating. Then you hear things like this:

The daughter:  Help! Save me! I’m a Princess that needs to be rescued!

The son: -Silence-

The daughter: Help! Help! If someone could please rescue me when they have time. . .

The son: -Continued silence-

The daughter: Please, if you’d like to rescue me, I’m back here. Help! Help!

The son: -Silence that makes me think I need to get out of bed and make sure he’s still in the general vicinity and not doing something extremely dangerous-

Me:  Dude! Go save your sister!

The son: I’ll save you ’cause you asked, but you could do it yourself. Just try.

And. . .my son understands feminism better than the daughter and I combined. Figures. Eventually, the daughter started saving herself. It wasn’t a good day for rescuers. The son has been feeling a little rough. He sounds like he’s doing his best I’m-a-grown-man-with-a-gravelly-voice impression, except it’s all high-pitched since he’s five. His cheeks have bright red flags from the constant swipe of a forearm under the nose.

His Venom costume probably needs to be handled with a hazmat suit at this point.

Gross.

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He’s learning how to write, too. This would be great if he’d write nice things. However, while the husband and I were away on our little vacation, the daughter brought a note to my mom that he’d written. In the jumble of letters it was sorta noticeable that the words ‘Dallas’ and ‘hate’ were there. Not spelled well, but you got the idea. Of course, my daughter had figured it out easily. . .

He’d been repeating the words, “I hate Dallas” while he wrote it. With her in the room. And then he gave it to her. Like a little I-don’t-like-you gift.

Kids are cruel sometimes.

I can’t get the daughter into reading at all, and then her brother’s like, “Hey sis, read this.” Meanie. My mother dealt with the issue. I dealt with it when we got home. They made up pretty quickly and now I just keep getting notes that involve the word “but” on them. I really thought about telling him that there are two T’s in that word, but I’m not sure I want him scrawling “butt” on everything.

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We’re also back to doing search and seizure every morning before school. The son has a thing for the Victoria Secret models right now. Well, honestly, he’s got a thing for belly dancers. I let him watch a Shakira video and so technically, it’s all my fault.

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His little eyes followed every move of those hips and he was hooked. I mean, so was the husband and my uncle. Even I was a little mesmerized and spent entirely too long trying to figure out how to get my body to do that.

So when Victoria’s Secret sent a catalog to the house, the son obviously thought it was an entire book of belly dancers and decided to keep it on his book shelf.

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They do sorta look like belly dancers.

Sorta.

I don’t care that he confiscated my catalog. I care that he’s trying to take it to school to show all his buddies. I’d rather not be called in for that parent teacher conference. No thank you.

The fascination with belly dancers has caused numerous moments of uncontrollable laughter over here. It’s led to conversations like this:

The son:  Do you have a belly dancer costume? (in other words, lingerie like in the catalog) 

Me:  It’s underwear, bud. I have underwear.

The son:  Does it look like this?

Me:  Doesn’t matter. It’s my underwear and you don’t need to see it.

The son:  How come we can’t touch your boo-boos? (Their word for boobs. Not sure where it came from, but that’s what they call them)

Me:  Because they are mine and you don’t need to touch them. It’s my body.

The son:  Okay. -Tries to lay back against me while sitting on the couch. Keeps bouncing around.-

Me:  What are you doing?

The son: I can’t lay back without touching your boo-boos.

Me: It’s fine. Just lay back!

The son: -Lays back and starts giggling- 

Me: What?!

The son: I’m touching your boo-boos. 

Sweet lord. Ladies. . .I’d like to apologize in advance for my son. I promise. I’ll at least try to get him to the place where he calls them breasts. He may still be burping and farting loud enough to shake the shingles, but he’ll know the right name for anatomy. It’s the best I can offer at this point.

33 thoughts on “Princesses, Belly Dancers, and Boo-Boos

  1. I forget what Matt and I were play-arguing over a few years ago, but it ended up with me “hiding” a video game under my shirt. He said forget it, he didn’t want it now that it had been touched by “mom boob”. I kind of want to tell them they are all “mom boobs” and keep him innocent a little bit longer…

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    1. Bwahahahaa. Part of me will be happy when my son starts to realize that my body is mine and not a gigantic play toy he is welcome to grab/touch/whatever whenever he feels like it. Last year he slid a finger down my best friend’s cleavage. For him, it was nothing inappropriate. She didn’t quite agree. -facedesk-

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  2. We were at dinner last week and a birthday party came in with a bunch of cupcakes on tea racks and Mike tells his son (11 years) to go tell the ladies “Nice racks” and the kid comes back with, “Ew, Dad. They’re all old racks.” We about fell on the floor laughing.

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  3. God Bless Victoria!
    Sounds perfectly normal/familar/like-when-I-was-of-a-certain-age, but the writing thing! Now that’s something that he will totally value at a future time. I often think, ‘damn! of the early-childhood skills that I that I had an opportunity to acquire, writing has now replaced the ability to play ‘Sunshine of your Love’ on guitar’.

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  4. His note sounds like something mine will start writing in a couple months. My daughters first written words were I love you mom… I’m guessing my son’s won’t be so flowery.

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  5. Ha ha to funny.
    Why you jumping up and down. to watch the boo-boos go up and down.
    Why you shaking your head so fast. Looking at the boo-boobs shaking.
    That be me there since the ladies not dancing 😀 in the magazine.,

    Why you looking at the tip of the tower while we can watch many pretty girls walking past us?
    I got a girlfriend so hellooooo….
    Yeah that was my nephew now 6 years old. and it happened today.

    Now where was that nice dress and shoes huh huh you and for Christmas. GRIN

    Keep on smiling.

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  6. Oh yes, the boob and butt fascination. I’m all too familiar with this.My son is four and a half and about a year ago I’ve discovered by complete fluke that he made up his own word for “bra”. Since I speak Russian to him he knew the proper Russian word for chest and one day he casually asked during a conversation “why to you need a Groodz (chest) catcher?”. He repeated the question again yesterday, while trying to take on the role of groodz catcher himself…

    I really enjoyed your post.

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  7. *GIGGLING* So funny, I have a 6yo and he is boob obsessed! And, unfortunately, he is very aware that butt has two T’s, thanks to older brother. Once my 6yo drew a picture of my boobs and put it on the fridge. You’d assume he’d draw two circles, but no, it looked like a friggin long-ass, loopy ‘W’ with nipples hanging from the bottom like ornaments.
    WTF?
    Needless to say this is one piece of artwork I did not keep in the memory box.

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    1. I totally would have kept that. When my daughter drew family a family picture and started to actually give shapes versus just sticks. . .I was the only woman besides herself drawn with a stick upper body. I wanted to yell, “Hey! I do HAVE boobs. They’re just small. . .tiny. . .hard to see. . .but they are TOTALLY there.”

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