You are an adorable cherub whose blond and blue can melt even the crankiest of mommies into a pile of adoring goo. You are verbal, precocious, and enjoy dumping drawers onto the floor, tipping books from bookshelves, and knocking over any and all objects filled with liquids or food.
You still have a desire for "the Boob." Actually, less like "desire" more like "obsession." And I, who with great righteousness used to make them laugh with my confident jokes about women trapped by nursing, am facing my darkest motherhood fear: being grasped and undressed in public by a loud child screaming "BOOB! BOOB!"
Like a hunter finds her prey, you spy me across the room, your laser-vision narrows, and your little chubby legs blast you across the distance that divides us. I am scaled like a human ladder and, having scooped you up, try and distract you with something else. Anything. Else.
I admit, I went so far as to try and sell Daddy’s warm hairy chest (nipples even) as a nice alternative. But nothing but the Boob will do.
So, I’m afraid it will have to be cold turkey around here. For you and for me. No more boob. Mommy is so very tired and worn. And I love you, but I need these ladies back.
And as you’ve learned to say recently… they are MINE! MINE! MINE!!