To my darling Lucy,
I love you and I’m also going to need you to stop groping me in public. Whole Foods, Target, the Pediatrician’s office and the park in front of the elderly couple trying to enjoy their packed tuna salad sandwiches - these are all places I don’t want you to expose my breasts to innocents and passersby.
I’m not sure what’s happening, but your sudden fascination with my boobs is puzzling. Your father thinks it’s because my pregnancy is causing them to grow to frightening new heights and you can’t help yourself. I’m not so sure. All I know is that when I’m checking out a pair of forgiving maternity pants in that nearly non-existent maternity section at Target, you’ve pulled my shirt down and had your whole arm in like you’re digging around the bottom of a cookie jar. Since I’m so used to it at home, I barely notice, until a 15 year old kid walks by with a confused, intrigued, and slightly horrified look on his face.
Remember your doctors appointment last week? When my pregnancy hormones had me crying at everything the doctor was saying and he was just giving me tips about brushing your teeth? Remember when you were sitting on my lap, deep into the caverns of my cleavage, pulling my v-neck down to my belly button, giving him an indecent peep show? The poor man was trying so hard to look me in the eyes, his left eye started twitching from the strain.
My point is, I’m pretty sure I illegally engaged in indecent exposure at the park and it’s not from my doing. I’m not pointing fingers, but since your fingers are currently resting on my chest like you’re petting a puppy, I’m just going to let that speak for itself.
I know to you, it’s just mommy’s body. And it is. And in your innocence, you’re finding comfort and familiarity, which is why at home I barely blink an eye that you’re entirely up in my personal space while your father looks on in a “I remember when I used to …” look on his face.
At any rate, I guess my point it - please refrain from pulling my shirt down and exposing me in public. And leaving your Cheerios in there that I don’t discover until retiring my bra in the evening. It’s not a junk drawer.