Georgie is obsessed with dummies. Every time we pluck one out of her mouth, she seems to magic another up out of nowhere. I think she is hiding them around the house like alcoholics hide their stubbies.
Today, I went to do the shopping and as I said my goodbyes, I whipped a dummy our of Georgie's mouth. She wailed in protest but I told her 'We want to hear you talk, George!' (Also, I was leaving, so I didn't have to deal with the fall-out. )
I had no pockets, so on a whim I stuck the dummy in my bra. Now I am not breast-tacularly endowed like some mamas, who can tuck car keys and tissues and pepper spray into their impressive cleavage, ready for any emergency. I don't know why I suddenly channeled a DD life. I don't know why I do half the things I do, in truth.
I visited several shops before I got home and went to the loo, only to realise that the front of me looked both terrifying and strange. Basically the dummy was poking at a jaunty angle out of the front of one bra cup. It looked like I had either a) a massive, medically significant growth or b) one nipple shaped like a jumbo-sized dog biscuit.
In general, as far as dignity goes, it is all downhill for mothers after childbirth. But I still think I reached... not quite a new low, but perhaps a unexplored avenue of humiliation today.