You remember playing it. You know you do. Just not like this.
Over the Christmas holiday we visited relatives. Relatives with babies - newborn twins. At one point, I believe my sister-in-law, referring to her bodaciously milk-swollen breasts, muttered that she felt like, "Big-boobed Betty." Or something similar to that.
The first telephone line led to my eight-year-old nephew who took that phrase and ran with it. And repeated it to my girls who just happen to be fascinated with everything mammary right now.
Add a little late-night sugar, the acoustics of the shower and an off-center six year old and this is what you get:
"Mommy! Please come dry my hair! I can't put on my jammies because my hair is wet and dripping down my back and it makes me crazy. Pleeeeeeeeeeze?"
Standing behind her, hairbrush in hand, facing the mirror, I flip the switch on the hair dryer. A split second later, my nearly nude daughter starts twisting her hips, pursing her lips, and shimmying her shoulders. Out comes an original song, "Well I'm Big-boobed Betty got a mind of my own. Big-boobed Betty got a mind of my own. I rule the world and got a mind of my own..."
There is more. At least one more verse, but I'm struck dumb at the spectacle. She's got moves, thumps her hips to the beat and thrusts her hands into the air, scrutinizing her every move in the mirror. She is in the zone.
"Can I videotape this? I'm pretty amazed that you came up with this on the fly, girl."
"Okay, Mommy, but let me put my jammies on first. I don't want the world to see what my underwear looks like."
Yeah, sure. I'd be worried about the underwear, too.
Amazing what the slightest comment can inspire.