I’m back here for one reason – the beautiful, extravagant 2012 diary I bought to write in, didn’t work.
I was never a proper diary-writer.
Simply, I miss writing about my boys. They are everything to me, and it seems a shame to not capture my thoughts about them – which was what my blog was always about.
So onto the stars of the show, then. Today, I’ll write about Mr.3. I’m quite sure in a previous post I wrote about his obsession with ‘big girls’ – older women.
The obsession remains, but it’s primarily about the boobs now. Without any encouragement from me (aside from a very brief breastfeeding stint in 2009), he continues to be enthralled by womens’ chests. This afternoon we were at the library and were served by a very large lady, with enormous boobs, and a cleavage that I personally felt was a bit in-your-face. Mr.3, however, felt otherwise.
“Mummy”, he declared, upon leaving the library, “I want to go back to the library, and get a library book and then the library lady will open her boobies, and I can lie on them, and read my library book.”
That’s word for word, and my Mr.3 only turned three a fortnight ago.