Going tits-up (or down, as the case may be)

Today, my little girl (aged not quite two), pulled down the front of my shirt and peered inside.

“Eggs,” she announced critically before toddling away, a jammy crust plastered to her fat, nappy clad bottom.

“Eggs!” I said, aghast. “Melons, you mean.”

I lifted my top and did an experimental booby shake. Two saggy bags flopped dismally from side to side. My little girl was right and not ashamed to say it. (Sometimes I do admire the brutal honesty of children. This however, was not one of those times.)

It appears that my daughter and son have taken my once bouncy bazoongas and transformed them into the sort of balloons you find behind the couch three weeks after the party ended.

And I couldn't blame my ta-tas for just giving up. They’d done more than their fair share in our lifetime. They’d prevented strapless dresses from whooshing to the ground, informed passers-by of chilly changes in weather, been used as a podium for crumbs and spilled drinks, become a favoured plaything of many (ahem, perhaps not that many), and kept two little babies alive and well.

Their job was done and they were now content, kicking back and enjoying the aftermath of post-partying and post-breastfeeding - that boobylicious heaven where the chance of mastitis is an acceptable slim to zero. A paradise of apathy where tight bustiers and itchy lace have given way to stretchy elastic and loose tee shirts, where those gold glitter dustings, chicken fillets and rouged cleave are nothing but a vague, shameful memory.

But eggs? Surely they didn’t deserve that. Luckily, I like my eggs poached. 

I only have one friend who’s had a boob job. She’s neither American, famous nor short on self-esteem. She just likes having big boobs. I don’t think I could put my own breasts through the trauma of being cut, stuffed and stitched. It seems ungrateful. In fact, the only thing that appeals to me about breast augmentation is the induced coma. Sleep, glorious anaesthetised sleep.

Anyway, it's a matter of complete indifference to me. And I shall be sure to inform madam when she's a little older, that little girls always end up like their mothers - sure as eggs is eggs.