At least he's not taking it into the bathroom and locking the door

I grew up in a family of sports fans (myself among them).  We watched football, had season tickets to basketball and hockey, played baseball and softball and whatever else our various schools and communities were offering.  We played and followed the games.

So I've been reading Sports Illustrated all my life.  One of the first things I did when I got to college was to take advantage of the student discounts offered on magazine subscriptions. 

My choice?  Sports Illustrated.

So I'm well familiar with the annual swimsuit issue.  I can tell you who the various stars were throughout the years, when Christie Brinkley's reign gave way to those of Paulina Porizkova, Elle MacPherson, Vendala and Heidi.  How the issue used to be more interesting when it was a 7 to 10 page feature in the regular magazine, often with articles about sports in whatever locale the pictures were shot in.  Now that it's its own book, there are so many pictures that individual ones get lost in the shuffle.

But honestly, I'm a fan.  I've never found it offensive or gross.  The women are beautiful and healthy looking, the photography is usually far above the level of your average cheesecake calendar shoot.  I'm fascinated by the body painting.

And let's face it, who doesn't like boobies?

I've got a decent rack myself and I've always admired a good one on someone else.  They're pretty and bouncy and very appealing.  I totally get why men are into them, beyond the whole "they started life suckling at the tit and then spend the rest of their lives trying to return" theory.  They're fun!

The men in my family are unquestionably breast men.  My dad, my brothers, my grandfather.

And now, apparently, my son.

The other night Zeke was talking on the phone with my mom.  They were talking about the stickers he was playing with, what was on them (puppies and kittens, I think), how when she comes to visit next week, a trip to the sticker store will be on the agenda.

Then, in mid-sentence, Zeke spied the new SI swimsuit issue on the side table where the phone is, and went completely silent.  I could hear my mom saying, "hello?  Zeke?" as Zeke stared slack-jawed at the picture of Irina Shayk, all gorgeous and tan and with juicy mango boobies barely contained by her bikini top.

I took the phone from him, knowing that any further efforts at conversation with him would be useless.

Later he came up to me holding the magazine like it was the Holy Grail, an earnest look on his face.  "Mama, can I look at this?"

He sat on the couch and slowly leafed through the pages.  At one poing I heard him talking under his breath. 

Turns out he was counting boobies.  "One, two."  Next page.  "One, two."  And so on.

I'm telling myself it's a healthy supplement to his education.