The other day, I received a comment that said: “I still don't get why your daughter called your breasts Zebras. Can you 'splain?”
For those who don’t know what she’s asking about, read here.
Did you read it?
Oh, you did not!
It’s short! You can take the time to go back and read it.
Okay, I’ll just have to believe you read it now.
So, why did my daughter call my breasts zebras when she was three? Would that I understood the workings of a three-year-old mind. On second thought, I don’t think I want to understand.
But here’s my theory:
She was a typical three-year-old, full of questions. I’m sure she asked me at some point what’s that? when I was getting dressed. I would have explained that that was a bra, thinking that she was asking about the garment I was putting on. She may, in fact, have been asking what my girls were. Who knows? But in typical M fashion, she remembered the information later, but just slightly off.
The ladies became the zebras.
Now, I want to clarify that I didn’t intend to name this blog after the jugs. When I named this blog, that was just a funny story that made me laugh so I thought I’d be able to recall that story every time I went to my blog.
Plus I’m not that smart to put two and two together and realize that I sort of named my blog about my boobs.
This blog is not, in fact, about my breasts.
They are, occasionally featured however.
For example, here’s a booby story:
When D was just a few weeks old I was laying on our bed nursing her. Craig entered our bedroom and did a double take.
I asked him what that was about.
He explained that he looked at D and I lying there and wondered what’s that?
Then he realized that the giant, bulbous thing that dwarfed his daughter’s head was good old Lefty.