Talking about boobs and babies with eight year old girls


What’s wrong with this picture?


If you think it’s the poster of Selena Gomez on the door, you are wrong. That little minx is a triple threat with a bright future and a long career ahead of her. There are worse images to have to endure on a daily basis around my house.

Like this:


It’s like a live version of Hidden Pictures from “Highlights Magazine” on my ottoman. In a million years I would never have guessed to look on the ottoman inside my son’s Rastafarian hat with dreds for the vacuum cleaner attachment (FYI - there will soon be an opportunity for you all to win magnificent prizes for contributing pictures like this to my new blog format when I roll it out this fall).

You might be thinking that the wrong thing in the first photo is that one of Michael Jackson’s kids is in my bedroom?

That would be wrong.

Besides, those little cray-cray babies are now completely unmasked and live in Cray-cray town ranch across the country. However, if I've now sparked your curiosity about them, his daughter can be found on Twitter celebrating the Festivus tradition of the airing of the family grievances.

So to clarify, the child in the photo is NOT one of MJ's kids.

But the mask is making your wrong bells ring, right? Taken out of context, you might think it full of terrible and Friday the 13th creeptastic-ness. I understand that, so let me explain about the mask.

The mask is actually something quite right about this photo. My house is like a craft store. You can find almost anything you need to create something fantastic. I challenge you to get bored around here. The yellow feather and the car made out of a box, straws and drink lids on the ottoman, IN the ottoman photo, are evidence of the large amount of making of stuff we do around here.

We be crafty!

But I would agree if you said that the garbage in the ottoman photo is super wrong. I've turned my fucking face inside out trying to get them to throw shit away. My ottoman is frequently covered in some sort of wrong-ness.

Back to the question about what’s wrong with the first photo. Here it is again:

Is it the rat’s nest hair and stained clothing on the rail thin child that seems wrong? Do you suspect neglect?

Well, try to relax. I make her comb her hair at least every other day, and I feed her when she’s out of her crate - that’s at least twice a day for 26 minutes. And the crate is blinged out with craft store gems, so don't be all, "OH MY GOD YOU KEEP HER IN A CRATE," because she loves it.


Back to the original question. Seriously, stop interrupting me with your judgment! I asked you a question! What is wrong with the first picture? Is it the lop-sided boobies? That was where I was initially all freaked out. I completely understood the making of boobies out of red yarn, I mean who DOESN'T do that? It's the crooked-ness that wrong-a-fied this photo for me. It's so distracting.

Seriously girlfriend, straighten those bitches OUT!

And before you fashionistas tell me that it’s industry standard to make fake craft boobies out of black yarn (because anyone who is ANYONE knows that black is the new silicone), you should know that I encourage MY kids to buck the system and follow their bliss! According to my yarn-boob-crafting daughter, red is “blissier."

Suck on that, suckers!

If you are still racking your noodle trying to figure out what’s wrong with this picture and then thinking, “Ah HA! It’s the laundry baskets in the background. What a slob that Nikki is. LAZY!”

Wrong Susie Homemaker! If that's where you are at, fuck you and go away. You are reading the wrong parenting blog.

For those of you still here, I’m finally going to cough up the answer to the question of what is wrong with the photo since you are avoiding trying to answer it. The answer is….


There is nothing wrong with it. It’s a photo of an eight year old girl expressing creativity and curiosity about what it’s like to have breasts, or as she calls them, “BOOBIES!” And lately, we’ve been talking a lot about boobies. Last night I had the pleasure of discussing the pros and cons of having boobies with my daughter, Cate, and her friend who I will just call Faerie Girl, because it’s not cool for me to reveal the identity of other people’s kids here on this filthy rag of a blog.

So Cate and Faerie Girl were discussing boobies and asking me questions about them. The first question was easy. They wanted to know if I like having boobs? "It's not that simple," I told them. "There are pros and cons to having knockers."

I said that I was very happy to have been able to breast-feed both my children with them, and that I liked how they filled out my clothes. I told them that I was a late bloomer, and was teased and called “crater chest,” in junior high. The boys said that I was not only flat, but indented. I told them that it hurt my feelings and that I cried about it once or twice.

I also told them that sometimes I didn’t like having them because they got sore, or just in my way. I told them that I worried about them staying healthy, so I made sure to examine them for moles and lumps a few times a month since there is a history of breast cancer in my family.

They were riveted.

I had the focused attention of two almost third grade girls with wild imaginations and big dreams. They were both looking at my boobs, which happen to be hard not to look at.

If those sixth grade boys could see me now!

“Any questions?” I asked them?

Yep, they had questions and quite a few things to say!

In my heaven, there is a cool room where you can chillax with snacks and watch the replay of the favorite and special moments of your life. I WILL be replaying this one while eating gluten and chain smoking cigarettes. Sorry about that off topic thing there, I was trying to say that adore listing to the free association of a child when they feel comfortable with you and enthusiastic about a subject. It never gets old.

Here are some of the highlights of the boob and baby talk:

“I can’t wait until I get boobs. I’ll knock people out with them. Like this,” and then my daughter acted out a little boob fling with her yarn boobs on the dog’s head.


“I will feed my baby with them, and look into her eyes, and hold her hand. After I get done with feeding babies though, I don’t want them. And I don’t want that hair on my privates either.”


But OH GOD, I hoped they wouldn't get going on pubic hair. Talking about grooming and waxing with grade schoolers is too much for even a straight shooter like me. I zipped my lip and waited for them to continue.

I’d like to thank the Academy from the Parental Academy Awards in advance for the award that I am sure I will given in February for best dramatic actress in a comedy, (new category made just for moms) because somehow I managed to keep a straight face. I wondered if the pubic hair comment was a segway to vagina talk.

But it was NOT. They continued.

“Wouldn’t it be cool if you could just take them off?”

“I wouldn’t take MINE off, ever! I’d squish them all day long.”

“Gross. Why would you squish them?”

“Because they are soft. Don’t you like squishing your mom’s boobs?”

“You aren’t supposed to squish your mom’s boobs.”

“I do it all the time when I hug her. It’s AWESOME! ”

" Me too. It IS awesome. My mom's boobs are gigantic.”


They briefly talked about whose mom's boobs were bigger, although they couldn't figure out how they would even figure THAT out. I didn't offer up any information. I figured that the cup size and measuring stuff could wait, but then they started talking about bras.

“I’m going to get a bra before I get boobs so that when my boobs come, they will know where to go.”

"My bras are going to be made of glitter and feathers. I am going to make them myself."

Okay then. That would certainly solve the issue of fitting, right? Custom made, sparkly-soft, mini tit-slings.

Remember what I said about the free association of little ones? I'd pay big dollar for this type of quality entertainment.

They went on and on until the subject of vaginas indirectly came up as they both agreed that they would have TONS of babies and feed them with their huge, squishy bazonga boobies.

“It’s gonna hurt our vaginas a lot,” my daughter announced.

Best liar in a comedy? Nikki Knepper.

“No, it’s not so bad,” I told them, “and you forget about it so quickly, because you fall in love with the baby. Trust me, your vagina heals right up! After you have the baby, you can either feed it with your boobs or a bottle. Either way, you will be too happy to think about the pain. All your lady parts have a purpose. There are pros and cons, but without the bad, we couldn't have the wonderful, which is the making and feeding of babies.”

I decided not to tell them the truth about how a baby sometimes rips it's way out of a vagina, tearing straight through the perineum and through the grape shaped, projectile, H-roid thingies hanging out of their assholes. Instead, I gave them my best smile.

I didn't tell them about about how some women experience excruciating pain at the beginning of breastfeeding, their nipples and breasts feeling like someone pulled a rip cord in a hot air balloon sending fucking FIRE throughout every inch of them. Instead, I offered them some popcorn and left them talking and dreaming about a future full of boobies and babies of their own.

Rasta yarn-boob girl in her nerd glasses and clothes from yesterday. Peace out, bitches. Peace out.

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