People didn't believe me. They suggested tactics and books. I got funny looks and snide remarks. But I swore up and back down that my son was OBSESSED with boobs from the day he was born. I swore that if I weaned him he might jump off the ledge of his crib. So he kept nursing until I could reason with him and he was old enough to cave to major bribes. That translates to 2.75 years old. He does not try to nurse anymore. The begging and pleading and tears have stopped. I don't know if he remembers those years. But what I do know, is that he's still obsessed. He must get that from his Dad. They both think boobs have mystical powers. Multiple times a day, Avery tries to stick his hand down my shirt. He's getting pretty smart to figure out a way I'll let him cop a feel. "Mom, I just want to jump over it to touch your belly." "Mom, I just need to see if it has a boo-boo." "Mom, my hands are cold." He even tries to stick his FEET down my shirt on occasion after I reject his hand groping. Last night (since we've been sharing a bed at my parents' house), I woke up to him frantically feeling all over my back for my missing boobs.
He doesn't want to just feel them. He also wants to talk about them. "Mom, dinosaurs don't have boobs." "Grandma, are those your boobs? Does Sophie (the dog) have boobs? Belts don't have boobs." To a friend's Mom, Avery said, "Are those your boobs? I have little boobs." The list goes on and on and on.
His wife can thank me someday for his constant pestering. I hope he doesn't hit on his kindergarten teacher someday.
In case you're wondering, I do try to thwart his efforts and teach him proper etiquette. I talked to him about "private parts." Guess where that got me? He drops his drawers and grabs his junk and says, "Grandma, these are my private parts." Oh, what's a mom to do? Laugh, behind his back. That's what I do.