My dear husband, the little master and I recently had dinner at a friends house. Another couple with a family, lovely pair, beautiful kids and a great home. We are, however, still getting to know each other.
So waltzing in without knocking, helping myself to their finest drop then kicking back on their couch, whilst wrestling their ten year old son to the ground is kind of not where we are at yet.
It was a mad scramble to time our arrival to a tee so that we could set the little master up in his portacot and wind down for his usual bed time. He was perfect, went down so easily without a fuss so his parentals could get stuck into a scrumptious roast dinner.
Yet only a few minutes prior, rather than settling into the conversation around the kitchen bench about the usual – work, kids, school, I found myself trying to come up with complimentary comments about the hostess' bust size.
I know, I know..how does this happen literally only a few moments after arriving you ask?
It was a bit of a blur. I do recall the hostess receiving a photo text message – an image of her friends new errr...'girlfriends' she recently paid $10,000 for.
Then the hazy words such as lopsided, breastfeeding, three kids, double D, wow and Thailand were also thrown around.
Picture AP: nodding, ah ha, oh, yes, hmmm, wow, ah ha, right.
Oh look, the little master is riding your dog, excuse me a moment.
Gives dear husband desperate look of OMG WTF?!
Retrieves little master and scurries off to the spare room to put him to bed.
Baby in bed, dinner time. Great. Footy half an hour away from starting. Wine poured. Brilliant. Awkward lopsided boob conversation over. Even better.
With a mouthful of roast potatoes, we manage to keep the conversation to pretty stock standard topics – footy finals, childcare updates, local suburb issues, mutual friends. You know, the usual, boring comfortable stuff. Not a lopsided boob comment in sight.
After retiring to the couch to watch the footy final, the wine and beers continued to flow. And so did the marshmallow snowballs. Yum!
With half an ear tuned into the footy commentary I continued to chat smalltalk with the hostess whilst the boys muttered throwaway remarks regarding free kicks, goal reviews and umpires.
Then it happened.
She said the unthinkable.
The one thing every teenage boy, actually make that ten year old boy, would curl up and hibernate under their doona forever for.
Hostess (gin and tonic in hand): We've caught him playing with himself before. He's only ten.
AP: chokes on marshmallow snowball.
Hostess (takes another swig of the hard stuff): It's not my role to chat to him. It's up to HIM to do it (points to husband who has no idea of new found responsibility, barking obscenities at the TV)
AP: barfs up snowball onto the carpet, dear husband patting her back.
Hostess: They're starting so much earlier these days, if he wants to do that then fine, but he needs to know what it means.
AP (swigs wine): nodding, ah ha, oh, yes, hmmm, wow, ah ha, right.
It kept going. The topic then changed to her teenage daughter and how many bases she had covered with her boyfriend of six months.Wow.
For someone I hardly knew it was too much. Far too much information. On the back of the awkward boob conversation upon arrival, plus the ten year old son discovering his man bits, I just didn't feel comfortable enough to contribute or suggest how they should tackle such issues. It just didn't feel like it was any of my business.
So I sat back and listened, nodded, ahhed, ummed and devoured copious amounts of snowballs and red wine.
I figured, maybe it was just something she needed to talk about and get off her ummm..chest?
Pun unintentional. But it's there.
The footy finished, we cleaned up, woke the little master, thanked our hosts for a great time and dear husband drove us home.
Upon our return, dear husband pleaded with me: 'when the little master is a teenager can we not discuss his err...habits with our friends? Pur-leeease AP?!'
Agreed. In fact, two big snowballs to that.