by Aurora Bordeaux
It’s about boobies.
The first night the Hubs and I arrived at mandatory in-law family vacation, I snuck up to our room and poured myself a few fingers of Jim Beam in my leftover Taco Bell big gulp cup. Lord knows I deserved it. We had just closed on our new condo hours before, a dramatic experience considering the owner refused to move any of his stuff out and we nearly had to go to war. Though I’m a kravmagirl (krav maga girl) and love a good skirmish, I don’t enjoy legal hobmaroo, and was beyond relieved when hired movers showed up at the eleventh hour. So now that I was at the beach a week of in-law time ahead of me, I needed a little of the Kentucky staple to ease a measure of liquid calm into my being.
As I chilled on the porch with the sisters-in-law in the gloaming, things were moving along swimmingly. The wind was pleasantly chilly, the view was clear, and the conversation was light and breezy. All was well.
Without warning, the six-year-old son of the particularly hippie dippie sister-in-law sidled up to his mom, thumb in mouth, leaned over to ask her something, and then openly fondled her breast. I’m not talking about a side swipe, and accident, or a drunken fratboy brush. I’m talking about a full on, cupped hand touchy-touch. He enjoyed it. He massaged it. He was openly playing with her boob.
Allow me to repeat: This child is Six. Years. Old. If I’d had a whistle on my person, I’d have blown it.
My eyes locked with the Hub’s. His were apologetic, and mine were screaming.
(Sip sip sip sip sip sip sip)
I’m sure I’ve opened a can of comment worms just by telling this story and being disgusted, but it’s a true story, and the world must know what happened here. I will not be silenced by fear of controversy. The boob grope was weird! It was creepy! It was oedipal! No, no, no! Sip, sip, sip!
There is no conclusion to this story—I am speechless. Plus it’s time for a refill.