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My Mooters!

A dear friend of ours, two kids (who she nursed) later, is contemplating plastic surgery…I’m all for it, being enhanced myself and one who nursed her child. I cannot wait to have another child, nurse that one too, and then get a lift myself. I’m hoping it’ll be my 40th birthday present. Being able to nurse your child is amazing but not so amazing for the figure, so I see where my friend is coming from.

Besides, I prefer to think of it as a valuable add-on. I mean really, who buys the stripped down version of the new car or the new computer? You always add some upgrades. And yes, I did just compare my wonderful, life-giving body to inanimate objects…so what?

Back to my story…so my dear friend had the consultation but the price was a little steeper than she and her hubby had expected. So, for now, her dream of perky pre-baby boobies is on hold while they figure out the extra cost.

Why am I blogging about this, you ask? Well, she called last night and even though my hunky hubby answered the phone and spoke with her himself, it wasn’t until I was talking to her that he decided to shout his question, “When are you getting the new HOOTERS?”

Hooters… a funny sounding word that Captain Fussypants has not yet heard so he immediately picked up on it and started repeating, but he got it wrong, he thought his daddy had said MOOTERS.

So the rest of my conversation with my dear friend went like this:

Me: Um, can you hear this?
Fussypants shouting: MOOTERS? My MOOTERS.
Hunky hubby shouting: HAHAHA, Auntie (name withheld for privacy) is getting
Fussypants, still shouting, “NONO. MY MOOTERS. MY MOOTERS (fit of
Dear friend: That is funny, mooters. Cute. Well, I can’t really hear
you, just them, so I’ll call you later.

Not sure if she thought my husband and son discussing her probable augmentation was as hilarious as my family thought it was.


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