My daughter informed me yesterday that she was sooo glad she hadn't inherited my boob gene.
After observing her place her bra on her bust as opposed to my morning round up in an effort to secure mine into their hammocks, I wasn't overly surprised.
She then asked if I could I ever remember being flat chested.
"Easy," I answered, "the last time I layed on my back."
"No Mum, not when they disappear under your arms! At what age?"
"Oh, you mean ..."
"You know what I mean - when?"
It was tricky casting my mind back that far, but I told her that I did distinctly remember thinking about bandages a lot and dreading sports day in my middle school.
That seemed to answer her question, and so the conversation progressed.
"Apparently," she continued, intimating a question, "according to some famous model you can gauge the size of your bust by how many pencils you can 'hold' under them."
She looked at me expectantly.
"Huh, a pencil!" I scoffed.
I shook my head and told her that if ever it was needed, I was sure I could secure a small child under mine without too much trouble.
"Exactly!" she said, eyeing her pert frontage and heading to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.
As I watched her exit the room, I felt a warm glow.
"Mmmm...." I thought.
"I do so love our little mother and daughter chats!"