Babies in my boobies

For nearly eight weeks now, I have devoted myself to another round of P90X, with push-ups and pull-ups and squats and lunges and curls and crunches and huffing and puffing dominating my every evening.

I have not yet missed a workout, and am on a similar progress track as I was a year ago.

Actually, I may be even further ahead, based on what The Daughter Formerly Known as The Latest Addition had to say the other day as I was getting dressed.

“Daddy,” she said. “You have big boobies.”

I thanked her, because what guy with a growing chest doesn’t want to be told he has big boobies, then proceeded to flex my pectoral muscles for her entertainment.

Amused, the DFKATLA watched my chest dance back and forth, one pec after the other, before exclaiming: “Daddy, you have babies in your boobies!”

I laughed, although of course I don’t.

But if I did, I think I know what the babies in my boobies would be up to in there:



Still with the DFKATLA, the other night Hot Wife and I engaged her in a group hug before bed, as we often do with her because she is still so tiny and squishable in between her mom and dad.

As we relinquished our grip, she looked over to me and said “daddy, you are the prince.”

I just about melted.

Not wanting to be left out, Hot Wife asked the DFKATLA what she was.

“Mommy, you’re the prin… No, I’m the princess, you’re Mrs. Mom.”