Yesterday, as I sat in the lobby of a reception hall nursing Blake, I had the following conversation with an 8-year-old second cousin (twice removed):

Coz: Can I hold him?
Me: Yeah, just as soon as he’s done nursing. He wanders away & returns a few minutes later.
Coz: Awww. He reaches out to stroke Blake’s hair and pokes him in the eye instead. Blake looks up at me with an aggrieved expression but doesn’t stop nursing. Can I hold him now?
Me: He’s still drinking, honey.
Coz: No, he’s not.
Me: Uh, yes he is.
Coz: No. He’s not drinking. Those are boobers.
Me: (thoroughly flustered) That’s where milk comes from. He wanders off, clearly unconvinced.

There were a couple of unfortunate resonances to this conversation. First, has he ever seen a nursing baby? Was he one himself? Second, his parents just separated and his mother has recently had a boob job (maybe as a consolation prize, I dunno) so breasts may just have been a hot topic in his house. Both of these speculations make me slightly uneasy, like I should’ve been nicer or more supportive or something.

But it’s still kind of funny. Boobers. That’s what Little Spider used to write on everything in our last year of highschool. Although when he said it, I though he was saying talking about the marks of the Black Death (those are buboes, I now realize).

I have to admit, I don’t really enjoy being doggedly pursued by very young children. Blake brings them out of the woodwork; to take a page from Iggy Pop, they want him to be their doll. I find that I’m not the most patient person when I can’t find a quiet place to sit with my babe. Or maybe I just don’t want to share my doll.

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- Rocketbride's adventure of 6/21/2004 10:06:00 p.m.