"Mama?" Buttercup's voice is ending on an up-note. Her eyebrows are scrunched up and her lips puckered in that cute and pensive way three-year-olds are prone to when pondering Life's Big and Very Important Questions. "Yes," I ask, as I throw my bra into the hamper in the bathroom-adjacent closet and step into the bath tub for the same kind of quality time I grew up with.
"Mama?" She hesitates as I sit down. This is unusual. I wait for it, her uncertainty almost giving it away.
"Mama, why are your chichis down there? They are supposed to be up!" She emphasis the statement by holding her upturned palms near her own baby-flat chest.
I want to say they used to be. I want to explain the everything in between then and motherhood. I want to say that DD's and gravity aren't meant to get along when silicone isn't involved. But I can't. She's too young to care why bras exist. And I figure I should wait until she is at least 16 to start blaming her for my body doing the whole Softening of Motherhood thing. Which means that the bra is the only thing I can go with.
"That's why Mama wears a bra, baby," I say, trying not to laugh. "to help keep them up here."
I demonstrate by lifting the girls back to their pre-Buttercup positions. While doing so, I make a mental note of reminding The Husband that he promised me a boob lift after I push the next kid out.
"Oh," she says, still staring at my naked body. "Will a bra help your belly, too?"