My four-year-old son has a new curiosity about the human anatomy.

Boobs, breasts, ta-tas, hooters, or whatever you call them. He has endless questions. “Why do boys have nipples, but not boobs? Why aren’t Mommy’s boobs flat so that baby Colby can be “closer?” How does Mommy make milk? Why doesn’t Daddy have breasts?”

I prefer the current boob obsession to his discovery of private parts when he was two. In the bath, he’d yell, “Penis!” as he yanked his little dude with glee. I shrugged and guessed it must be a guy thing. At least he was still in diapers, so I didn’t have to battle the “hands in the pants” habit. Still, I was relieved when he stopped yelling, “I have penis? Mommy has ‘china?’” in public restrooms.

A year later, he was fascinated with my enormous belly and concerned about how his baby brother would make it out. I thought I’d done an adequate job of explaining that there was a special tunnel until he began requesting “A Baby is Born” for his bedtime book every night for weeks. Each time we’d look through the book, he’d have more questions until he’d developed his own monologue to accompany the photographs.

Thankfully, like Mommy’s “china,” this phase ended and I thought we were in the clear until puberty.

But, I’d forgotten about boobs. Lately, the human breast obsession has expanded to include animals --“Does our dog, Daisy, have boobs?” -- and toys.

“Storm Troopers are girls.” He informed me, analyzing one of his Star Wars figures.

“Oh, really? Why’s that?” I asked.

“Well, because they have these bra things,” he explained pointing at the Storm Trooper’s chest plate.

I think I better go hide my tampons.

By Maya Creedman

Labels: Maya Creedman

Stumble This Post