Friday evening, I walked into the living room to find Bob lying on the large ottoman that serves as our “baby-proofed” coffee table. He was naked and thoughtfully caressing his boy parts.
“Bob? It’s just fine to touch your private parts, but you need to get used to doing that in private.”
“I am alone.”
“You are alone in the living room near our front window. That is not really alone and it’s not really private.”
“My bedroom is private?’
“Yes, and the bathroom too.”
“Thanks, pal. Now it’s time to put on some underpants and wash up for dinner.”
“Mama? You need to touch your private parts with yourself sometimes?”
I pause. (Hands spin on the clock dial. Seasons change. Pages rip from the calendar.)
“Um. Well. Yes, everything I do with my private parts is in private.”
I then returned to the kitchen and counted the seconds until Jeff got home.