Okay, those of you who got here through a Google for “mommy titties”? Please stand to the left in a single file, turn around and get the hell out?

 

 

But those of you genuinely intrigued by my effortless title (just one rewrite, no kidding!), here’s a little story.

9am in the morning, after my morning shower. Two-year old gets into walk-in closet with naked mommy. Said mommy is putting on underthings. Two-year old stares unabashedly up at equally shameless mommy, and goes:

“What that?” She points. She scores.

“It’s Mommy’s bra, sweet one.”

Silent staring continues with hand on closet door knob as if to run at first instance of Escaped Misshapened Boobies. Of course, the Technologically Advanced Scientifically Engineered wireless Maidenform strapless bra clasps refuse to lock in. Mommy huffs and puffs and almost blows a gasket. Said two-year old isn’t in a hurry. She plops down on bottom, legs out front, eyes still watching the furious Incarceration of Wrinkly Mounds of Flesh.

Clasps finally take but not before a nipple pops over.

“Titty!” she exclaims. “Titty ditty!”

I reign in fugitive nipple. Show is over. Two-year old picks herself up, opens the closet door and marches out, to the rhythm of, “TI-ttee! DI-ttee! TI-ttee!”.

If there is one thing I should like to change about my life right now, it would be to simply get dressed (or undressed) everyday without someone pointing at my boobs and then making a parade of it. That would be nice.

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