Tales from the boob

One day last week, in a moment of inattention, I asked Mabel if she'd just get off the boob so I could go and do something. Monkey happened to be listening; maybe it was something he'd asked me to do that I wanted to get up for. Anyway, he thought it was hilarious. Somehow, even though as far as he's concerned breasts are called "booboos" and that's perfectly normal and unfunny, he picked up on my use of "boob" and has decided to run with it. So now he keeps saying "Can you get off the boob, Mabel? Can you get back on the boob, Mabel?" and laughing uproariously at the comedy gold of it all.

***********

I was just upstairs putting Mabel to bed a minute ago. (At least, I started to. At time of writing she's "reading" to herself over the monitor and I'll be called back any minute to continue the job.) She was feeling particularly angelic and affectionate, blowing kisses and proffering hugs on demand, and as we lay down she put an arm over my breast in an odd contortion. I asked her what she was doing. "I'm hugging the mumeet," she said.

************

Sometimes when Mabel is nursing in his vicinity, especially just after her nap when we're all on the sofa, Monkey tries to cop a feel. (He's still very much a breast man, and I suspect he always will be.) I used to tolerate it, but more and more it's starting to drive me demented. I have told him that it's just not appropriate, and then explained what that means. The other day I heard Mabel telling off one of her dolls for some infraction: "It's not a-po-pi-et." Then it came up in rear-seat conversation: "You're not appropriate," Monkey told her, a propos of nothing at all. "Yes I am. I am a-po-pi-et."