Didn't I Feed You Yesterday__ A Mother's Guide to Sanity in Stilettos - Laura Bennett [57]
This incident clarified my need to have an open dialogue with my eldest son. Determined to overcome my fear, I turned to the Internet. Cleo had been so much easier; she learned everything on the street, like a normal child, and brought the information home to me without embarrassment. Besides, she has parts I understand and sympathize with. Period? No problem. Wet dream? Gross. The advice I found in the ether was disheartening. Start early, one site suggested: “When teaching your toddler where his nose and toes are, include ‘This is your penis’ in your routine.” Great; now I needed to teach the toddler something he clearly already knew as a birthright? Thanks, Mr. Internet. “Use the correct terms to avoid confusion. Say things like ‘Girls have a vulva and a vagina, and boys have a penis and testicles.’” What’s so confusing about “weenie”? Do balls really need to be called testicles? I tried this approach and started only using the word “penis”—so as not to be confusing—but my attempts went awry by way of my kindergartener’s principal’s office.
“Why did you say ‘penis’ in the middle of circle time?” Mrs. Mackenzie asked Larson.
“I just had to” was his reply. Her solution? He was required to come to her office five minutes early every day and say “penis” as many times as he needed to get it out of his system. Then he could return to class and join in good clean fun. After three days, his Tourettian outbursts stopped and he resumed his routine. Perhaps I can find a website that tells me to say things like “This is how you masturbate,” and the boys can then go on a cleansing routine of getting that out of their systems once and for all, as well. But hey, who are we kidding? In a world where “penis” is still considered a curse word in kindergarten, are we really getting anywhere when it comes to talking openly about sex with our children?
I could have quit, but I take my motherly responsibilities seriously, so I pushed on. Another site blithely suggested, “If you feel uncomfortable talking to your children about sex, recruit an uncle or a male friend to discuss the subject with your child,” as though Amber alerts were merely a ruse to slow down traffic on the thruway. All this advice did for me was conjure up images of Chester the Molester and Jeffrey Dahmer. Okay, I’ll be sure to try that one. Maybe I could ask a “male friend” along the lines of my husband, I thought. He’s got a penis. I looked over at him, asleep on the couch in front of a Formula One race, remote in one hand, the other lightly resting on his crotch. How did these people ever come to be in charge of the world? This is something I often ask myself. How did men surpass women in status, power, and wealth? These questions come from a place of love, mind you. I live with far too many of them to survive day-to-day existence while harboring any ill feeling. But I will admit that I don’t understand men, and that I consistently find women to be the more capable sex. As early as the age of two, girls leave boys standing bewildered in their dust as they speed along the social, emotional, and intellectual racecourse of life.
Cleo did everything earlier and better than any of the boys; as a group, they were slow to walk and talk, refused to give up breastfeeding at a reasonable age, and were impossible to potty train. They still can’t take a poop without yelling for help, and they can’t even manage to get all their urine consistently in the toilet. Can anyone explain why it is so hard to pee into something the size of a platter with something the size of a cocktail sausage? If I had known good aim violated the laws of physics, I would have