Recently Johnny Knoxville was in my bathroom while I was dressing. Not "the" Johnny Knoxville; my Johnny Knoxville. I had on my underwear but had not yet put on my pants. I bent over to pick up something off the floor. As all "real women" will understand, one of my butt cheeks popped out of my underwear. Johnny said, "Uh oh! Butt out!" and proceeded to grab my underwear and pull it over said exposed butt cheek. The other cheek then popped out and Johnny tried to cover it as well. Realizing in his own 2-year old mind that this was a futile effort, he gave me a disgusted look, grunted, "Oh no" and left the room. Thanks for the self-esteem boost there, Johnny. I know that one day you will likely marry a stripper, but I can assure you that her butt cheek will also pop out of her underwear when she is in her 40s!
Just a day or so later I was running around the house in my comfortable clothes. Ladies, you know the ones - shirts that used to belong to our husbands or ex-boyfriends and tattered yoga pants that we never wore to yoga because we don't believe in exercise. As I bent down apparently the shirt bagged quite a bit. Johnny Knoxville smiled broadly and said, "Boob! Touch it?" "NO! You can't touch it! Wait til you get that stripper girlfriend in a few years and then you can touch them. Although mine are real and I'm sure hers will not be, and they will likely be bigger than mine but no!" He seemed confused but also oddly satisfied with that explanation. My husband, however, seemed intrigued by the idea of a stripper girlfriend. I told him I was just preparing myself; set my standards low and be pleasantly surprised if Johnny and Steve exceed them. Note that I said "If", not "when." Again, I'm a realist.
Yesterday I was wearing a shirt that zipped up the front. Once again, Johnny Knoxville was up to no good. He grabbed the zipper, pulled it down, got a big grin on his face and proudly yelled, "BOOBS!"
Who teaches him these things? Is it just innate in the male species? We have already had the "private body" discussion but for some reason, this just makes it all the more intriguing to Johnny.
Steve O really hasn't been obsessed with the body all that much - or so we thought. However, he is always very interested when we go to the bathroom. In a restaurant bathroom last week, Steve O completed his job and then I had to go. In the middle of my hovering pee (yes, I'm a germophobe, of course I hover! You don't really think those tissue paper covers keep germs from transferring from prior asses to yours, do you?)... Okay, where was I? Yes, I see it now - in the middle of my hovering pee, Steve O announced, "Mama has no penis." I heard the woman in the next stall giggle a little. I assured Steve that it was true; I have no penis. He then announced in the loud voice that all two year olds seem to have, "Steve O has a little penis. Daddy has a BIIIIIGGGG penis." (He used his real name, however, not his recently changed moniker.) The woman in the next stall really lost it this time and burst out laughing. As my husband was waiting at our table with Johnny K, I didn't want to let him down, so I replied, "Yes! Yes he does." The woman took an awfully long time washing her hands and appeared to be following us back to the table. Hmmmm, was it my cute kids or the chance to check out my "big" hubby? No one will ever know, but my hubby was quite pleased when I reported back.
What has happened to me? I used to analyze medical records and read about urine and feces and genitals and subdural hematomas and traumatic brain injuries and broken bones, among a myriad of other things. Now I am reduced to boobs and exposed butts and proclamations of penis size. I can't believe my life!