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If Paige does not end up on Broadway, I will rip off my own arm and club myself with it.  Yes, sixteen costume changes and three tons of make-up is the place for Paige to be. 

So it should come as no surprise that America’s Got Talent is one of my daughter’s favorite shows on in the summer.

“Mom, I’m gonna go on that show one day,” she said, while staring in awe at the screen.

“Oh, yeah?  What’s your talent going to be?”  I expected her to say something in the dancing range, so I don’t feel like I’m just driving down the road throwing money out the window every month when I make a hefty payment to the dance studio. 

“I’m going to do really fast costume changes!”

Brace yourselves, America.  I have to unleash her on the world in no greater than eleven years.

Anywho.  This morning, while we were watching the DVR’ed episode of Radio City Music Hall night, I found that my daughter, through no doing of my own, has learned the very proper word “boobs.” 

As in, while we were watching a recap of the dance group Hype’s previous performances, she said the following, “Eeewwww, I don’t like them because they’re gross!”

“Why, cause they took off their shirts?”

“Yeah, and you can see their boobs!” 

I sat quiet, processing this information, when dear hubby came to the rescue.  “They’re boys.  They don’t have boobs.  They have pecs.  Except that guy we saw at Friendly’s last night.  He had moobs.” 

Thanks, honey, for saving the day and setting us straight.  Can’t wait for that note home from the teacher.