I was reading this post and found myself feeling very jealous that Melissa’s boobs got to go on an excursion. I mean, just look how happy they are! You go, girls! But what about me? Because, after all, everything is either totally about me or damn well should be. My girls want some action.

Let’s face it; last summer, I had a tonsillectomy (thank you, children, for bringing home the most vicious strain of strep throat known to mankind to take up residence in my tonsils). This summer, I had the hysterectomy. The way I’m going? I’ll probably end up with a double-mastectomy next year, because I am really running out of things to remove. And we all know that summertime may be misrepresented by the media as sun and sand and fun, but in reality (at least, in my reality) summertime is all about being sliced open and having troublesome body parts fished out. Yeah. You can see how my time may be running short.

Tonight, I lay on my bed with my children–freshly scrubbed and sweet-smelling–snuggled up on either side. I was reading along in our evening book when I heard definite giggling. I put the book down and turned towards my son. He had a huge grin on his face, and was caressing my breast with the delicacy and concentration of a great artist. (So lightly, in fact, that through my shirt and new slightly-padded bra, I hadn’t even felt it.)

“Stop that!” I said, while moving his hand away. But–I couldn’t help it–I chuckled a little. Which was, apparently, tantamount to saying, “Yes, please, this is both enjoyable and hilarious, feel free to use both hands.” A bit of wrestling ensued when I found myself fending off four hands intent upon groping me with a clumsiness that rivalled even the most drunken high school encounter. Eventually, order was restored. I issued my standard Why Mama’s Breasts Are Private And Touching Them Will Result In Years Of Therapy For All Involved speech. We finished our reading, and the kids went to bed.

Only, now I’m sitting here wondering two things. First, will anyone other than my demented offspring ever really look at my breasts ever again? They’re not spectacular, or anything, but, well, they’re boobs, and the last time I checked, 50% or so of the population was male. I’m not looking for full-out ogling, or anything, but the girls would probably enjoy an outing and a little discreet admiration. Sadly, that doesn’t seem to be in the cards for us any time soon. Oh well.

Second, when I go to add the money to the therapy fund over this, do I put it in for the kids or for me?