It’s a sad day when we realize we’re not perfect.

When an infant is plucked and/or pushed from the womb, they arrive into an aircon-induced freezing room, screaming their lungs out. And if they don’t cry, some sadistic gynecologist who’s not getting any, would smack their little butts.  I reckon they don’t want to face the bright lights and would simply rather just crawl back into that warm space in Mom’s belly where they were doing the backstroke moments before.  Or maybe they cry because they’ve seen their Dad for the first time.  Or maybe that’s how they transition from amphibian to human.  I don’t know. What I do know is that they don’t cry because of what they look like.

Babies don’t care what they look like.  Even if they knew they were covered in some red/white mucus like goo.  Little humans just want to eat, sleep, poop and pee.  And be left alone for the rest of the time.  They don’t care if they look funny.  Or whether they have hair.  Or whether they’re a little fat.  Or even how ridiculous they look when they smile without one single tooth in their mouths.  They will happily play in the mud with any other kid who happens to stroll by. Continue reading

Kids and boobies part 2

We all know kids see the world from an innocent perspective, in a clear, honest, unfiltered way.  Age clouds judgement and teaches tact, which we employ effectively, most of the time.

Me, the wife and our daughter were having a nice Sunday lunch in a well known hot-spot in town a few weeks ago.  (My son was on a rugby tour, if you cared.)  I remembered it being a bright, summer’s day so we opted to sit outside on the veranda.

(Normally it wouldn’t matter, but I have to take some time and explain the seating arrangement.  The veranda is about two feet lower than the rest of the restuarant.  They constructed a railing to keep drunk people from falling onto unsuspecting diners.  My daughter and I was sitting against the railing, whilst my wife sat opposite us, facing the restaurant.)

During our meal an acquintance passed our table and stopped to make small talk.  She was standing on the ledge, leaning over the railing.  This lady is one of those women who, when seated, would struggle to see her own plate of food, if you know what I mean.  For those of you who have not woken up yet, this lady would make Dolly Parton blush.  And like most voluptuous ladies, her shirt seemed way too small to contain all her….assets.

So there she was, leaning over the railing, hanging on to the pole, spilling over her shirt, chatting about food and kids.  My wife didn’t have too much to say, and my daughter had to twist her neck akwardly as she was trying to make face contact.  I had a great view. As my parents raised me to be respectful towards woman, I tried to maintain eye contact.

When she left a few minutes later, my daughter (who’s 10) inched forward, and in a very discreet voice, said:

“Wow mom, she has really big ones.”

I sprayed the table with beer.

My wife then reacted dismissively, obviously not impressed: “Umgh, they are just shop titties.”

I sprayed more beer.  And started coughing.  People were watching.

My daughter, now really intrigued, asked innocently: “What is shop titties?”

Fortunately for my wife, I didn’t have time to take another sip of beer, but I had to leave the table because now I was coughing hard and giggling histerically.  I headed for the bathroom.

I looked back to see a beautiful, blushing woman and a frowning little angel and I thought to myself:

“Shoptitties, really?”