One Whipped Mother

Nipples!

I'm sure you all will be pleased to know that I was bombarded by nipples this past weekend. It started innocently enough, this nipple bombardment, with my boy, Mr. Butler, approaching me on Friday with the fear that his nipple had somehow disappeared. I laughed it off, of course, because really, aside from David Blaine's famous nipple-melting illusion, how could a nipple disappear into thin air?

So I continued making the beds, feeding the animals, wiping counters, all the while Mr. Butler following me around from task to task repeatedly complaining about his lost nipple. Well, after about forty minutes or so, Mr. B ceased to be satisfied with my "mmmm hmmm's" and "yes, honey, your nipple went bye-bye, didn't it?" and he proceeded to throw a fit, throwing his arms, stomping his fat little feet and screaming, “Stupid Mommy! No nipple! No nipple, Mommy! Wahhhhh!”

I was embarrassed for him and his divaesque behavior -- Momma didn’t raise no Elton John.

I'd had enough of this nipple talk, and my hands were shaking with Windex withdrawal -- I knew that if I didn’t appease my tiny Elton, I might not get my Windex fix until later in the day, and that just wouldn’t do. So I bent down before him and inspected his nippleage. And true to Christ, if he didn’t lose a nipple.

Mr. Butler lost a nipple.

The one nipple was fine -- tiny pink nub of nothing, but fine -- the other, however, was but a miniscule dent, a pale slash, like the head of screw. Dismayed, I lay with Mr. B on the couch and willed the lost nipple to reappear, attempted to locate the nipple with my nipple-raising super powers. Alas, the nipple remained inverted. I tried gently poking at it, talking to it, telling it jokes, but it refused to come out of hiding.

It was then that I felt myself enter the horrible vortex known as Irrational Paranoid Hypochondria by Proxy (IPHP). Some of you may know what I’m talking about. My mommy instinct bellowed “cancer!” and due to the confusing effects of the vortex, it seemed completely plausible that my two-year-old would develop a case of breast cancer.

I wasn’t thinking in my right mind, obviously, and it wasn’t until after I’d put Mr. B in the bathtub on that chilly morning, that I realized how far gone I was -- the nipple emerged soon as Mr. B hit the water. My son was ecstatic, delighted with his impish little friend, and I collapsed in a heap of relief while clutching my Windex bottle.

And if that wasn't enough to put me off nipples for the rest of my life, Saturday night brought with it nipple hell.

My brother's fault entirely. It was he who thought it would be a good idea to watch a movie titled Blood Gnome, and I regret not going with my gut and insisting on Night of the Lepus instead.

I was and still am traumatized by the lead actor's nipples. They were abominable, damnable, revolting trash can lid-size slabs of rectum-colored flesh surrounded by black swatches of thick, straight hair. They were hideous things, and that actor should be ashamed of himself. If that unfortunate, shameless man should ever come across this post (and by God, he should read this for his own good as well as that of all humanity), I'd like him to read this in the spirit it’s intended -- good will.

Mr. Grody Nipple Man, sir, please seriously consider a nipple reduction, a waxing, perhaps even a total nipplectomy. If surgery isn't feasible, then please, for the love of all that is holy, keep your shirt on, man.

Keep it on. Even while swimming. Especially on camera. Keep. It. On.

Thank you.

posted by Ms. Lori @ 9:30 AM