Private(s) Talk

"Careful, Bob. That's a private part."

"No it isn't, Mom."

"Yes it is. My chest is one of my private areas."

"It's not private mom because it's your part but you're my mom so it's not private to me."

"It is."

"Can I hold your hand?"

"Always."

Packing

Bob ran in the back door, passing me as he raced to his room.

"I'm leaving for the dark side, Mom. I have to pack."

"Where are your pants?"

"I am taking all of my pants out of the pants drawer and putting them into my backpack!"

"No, I mean now."

"I am doing it now!"

"I'm saying perhaps you should start by putting on some pants."

"Pants!"

That Guy

"Mom? Who is that guy?"

"That's Saint John the Baptist."

"Is he dead right there?"

"It's a sculpture. An artist named Rodin made him out of metal."

"He forgot the pants part."

"I think he did that on purpose."

"Privates parts are for private and he's in the yard."

"Yes."

"Not private."

I Still Have Much to Learn, Apparently

"There's only one bathroom in Star Wars, Mom."

"Is that right? And when did you start calling me 'Mom'?"

"It's in the restaurant on Mos Eisley on the planet Tatooine. You are my mom, Mama."

"So the Star Wars guys only need one potty in the whole galaxy?"

"Yes. Most of the Star Wars characters don't have private parts."

"Okay."

"Except for the humans and the lady humans."

"Men and women are both just called humans."

"So they only need one potty because they're mostly droids and aliens not humans with privates."

"What about your other shows? What about The Wiggles?"

"I don't know about their privates."

"Me neither."

My Morning Monologue

Okay, Bob? We’ve got to get a move on or we’re going to be late for school. Take your hand out of your pants please. Did you finish your egg? It’s show and let go of your penis tell today. Did you pick something to bring? I like that but please keep your hand out thank you the color this week is yellow so what you’re showing and telling about needs to be yellow. Touching privates is for a private time. Perfect.

Let’s get your shirt on. Why not? Sure, wait, do you have to pee? No? Are you sure? Then let go of it that shirt’s fine. Oh sorry, let me stretch out the neck a little so your noggin will fit in easier. Great. Let’s put your truck in a bag it's a wonderful penis, but I don't need to see it right now with your name on it. Where are your shoes? Are they by the back door? The bathroom? I don’t know. Hand out of pants. Under the ottoman? You look there and I’ll look on the service porch. Nope. Oh, great, bring them over let your wiener go, Babe and we’ll put on your sneakers.

I think you’re going to need a sweatshirt. Let’s get out to the car. Come on, Pooch. And keep your hand off of it.

The Little Nutcracker

Jeff and I are in the kitchen putting away groceries. Bob runs in, arms stretched in front of him, his fists clenched tightly.

“I am very flying at you,” says Bob as he hurls his fists into Jeff’s crotch. Jeff instantly pales. “What’s wrong with Daddy?

“Oh Bob, I think you really hurt Daddy. Jeez. He really got you. Are you okay?”

Jeff’s eyes are closed.

“I’m sorry Daddy. I will kiss it for you.”

“Wait Bob, you can give him a hug in a minute. Let’s just let Daddy…”

Bob leans in and head-butts Jeff’s crotch while making a loud smoochy noise. Jeff doubles over.

“Oh no. That was bad and weird. Bob let’s just go in the other room and give Daddy a minute. We have to be very gentle near other people’s private parts.”

Jeff steadies himself with both hands on the counter. He exhales in rapid Lamaze-style breaths. I lead Bob out of the kitchen.

“Sorry Daddy. Mama did you know that now I only like ice cream if it’s all melted and not cold? Where’s my Spiderman guy? Have you seen him? Does R2-D2 have Valentimes in Star Wars?”

From the kitchen Jeff says, "I'm good. I'm good. I'm okay. Just need a minute. Couple a minutes."

Suspect Behavior

Yeah, I don't know either but I do know it can't be good.
And again with the no pants.

The Pulling

I sat next to Bob in his bed as he was drifting off to sleep. This bedtime ritual is 20% sweet mother/son time and 80% securing the exits to stop him from stripping naked and running through the house. As Bob was trying to find a comfortable position, he had one leg and part of his head hanging precariously over the edge. I gently scooted him back to the middle of the bed. He sat up suddenly.

“Ow! You pulled my pee pee!”

“No I didn’t. I moved you over. Are you alright?”

“It hurts!”

“I’m sorry you got rearranged in a bad way down there, but I did not pull your pee pee… penis. I wouldn't do that.”

“OK.”

“So, it's time to close your eyes…"

Bob bolted upright, “I need to talk about pulling.”

"Pulling?"

“Mama, pulling is for wagons and trailers and things that you pull, not for pee pees. You don’t pull a pee pee.”

“Um... Yeah, let’s go with that."

"Goodnight, Mama."

Attached

Jeff reported the following exchange took place between he and Bob during bath-time this evening.

“Daddy?”


 “Everything alright down there, Buddy?”


“I need you to help me take out this ball.”


“Do what now?”


 “Take it out, I want to play with it.” Jeff discovers that Bob is attempting to remove his own left testicle.


 “We don't do that with our parts. They are attached.”


 “Daddy, on your parts, why are there hairs?”


 “Well, when you grow up and become a man –"

“No! I don't want to grow. I want to stop growing. I don't want to be a man!”


 “It's fun. Being a boy is fun too. Growing is a good thing.”


 “But I want to be a lady.”

“Um, yeah, ladies are fun too...”










Privates 2

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.”

“OK.”

“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.

Privates

On our trip to the pediatrician for Bob’s three-year check up, the lovely Dr. Bess explained that the time had come to start talking to Bob about the concept of private parts and who is and is not allowed to touch his.

We have had the conversation a number of times since then, and Bob gets the “approved guest list” to Privates Land that we have mandated but he seems most interested in who else has private parts. The answer “everyone” seems to be unacceptable to him. He would like specifics.

“Mama has private parts?”

“Yes.”

“And Daddy?”

“And Daddy.”

“And Bajan and Pops and MeeMee and Daisy?”

“Yes, everyone has private parts.”

“Who else?”

As we stood in line at the grocery store, the shoppers on aisle seven were treated to this delightful discourse:

“That lady has private parts?”

“Yes, Bob I’m sure she does. Let’s use a quiet voice.”

“What about that man? He has private parts?”

“Yeah. Would you like a juice box? How about a banana? Want to look at this book?”

“What about that guy?” Bob points to a photo on the cover of Star magazine.

“Yes. Brad Pitt has private parts. How about a new topic?”

“What about the lady”

“Mrs. Pitt also has privates. Now, shhh.”

“And her too?” he asks, pointing to a photo of Britney Spears.

“For awhile her parts weren’t so private but now I think they are again."

"What?"

"Let's just get to the car please." Tough crowd.