These conversations always seem to happen when I’m elbow-deep in bread dough.

“Jump, Mommy kangaroo, jump with me!”

“Not now, Baby kangaroo.”

“Jump with me!”

“Mommy kangaroo hasn’t been that big into jumping since puberty, hon.”

“Mommy kangaroo has big boobies. I’ve got little boobies. When I get really bigger, I’ll have big boobies and then I can’t jump.”

What am I teaching her with my laziness and unsupportive bras? That she can’t jump once she gets boobs?

Then again, there’s genetics. I was a C-cup in sixth grade. Her father’s mother didn’t sprout until high school, but by the time she graduated she was 40-24-36. Unless there’s something *very* freaky in the water, my little munchkin is going to look like she’s 20 before she gets her learner’s permit.

“Honey?”

“What is it?”

“You’ve got financial planning with your company, right?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You need to make an appointment with them. Discuss savings plans with the goal of being able to afford a Swiss convent school in about ten years.”

“Is Penny talking about her boobies again?”

“You know it.”

“Have you tried telling her she’s really a boy?”

“Honey, we can’t afford private school. You think we’re going to be able to foot *those* kinds of therapy bills?”

“Point made. Just start in with the ’sex is evil’ talk.”

“I’d rather leave it to the nuns.”

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