Yes, that’s right, folks. Today’s topic will be the almighty penis. The phallus. The wang, the willy, the trouser snake, the pecker, the albino cave dweller. That penis. My son has one and, at the ripe age of three, has already fallen in love with it. He’s also in his Oedipal phase, and believe me, if he could, he’d kick Daddy right out of the house and marry me right now. Just call me Jocasta.
And don’t get me started on his breast fixation.
At first, it was kind of funny in an annoying sort of way.
Now, it’s just annoying.
He walks around with his hand down his pants. He strips naked and runs through the house yelling “Wanker, wanker, wanker”, an unfortunate term I taught him when he was two. Only he pronounces it “wankuw”. He sticks his bare ass up in the air and says “You see my little butt-insky?” Which he pronounces “wittle butt-insky” because his “L’s”, like his “R’s”, haven’t quite come in yet. He sticks his hand down my shirt at random intervals forcing me to put him down to get myself free. And, like I said, it used to be funny. Kind of. But now I just want to scream at him. I’ve taken peaceful parenting courses, so I’m supposed to be all about making this a non-issue. I’m actually very good at saying “I can’t hold you when you do that. Mommy’s ninnies are private.” And, “remember, our bottoms are private. Butts are private. Penises are private,” in my best flat-neutral voice.
But what I really want to do is scream I’m going to smack that little butt-insky into next fucking Tuesday, so get that smarmy smile off of your face!
And maybe if the schlong were his only fascination, I wouldn’t be so perpetually peeved about it. But there’s the boob thing. Besides the old hand down the shirt trick, he also tries to sneak up on me getting dressed to say, “I see your ninnies , Mommy.” (youw) Or, “I got your bra for you” (youw bwa foh). I adore this kid. I seriously do, but this situation is starting to drive me insane.
And then, too, he’s anal retentive. Literally. He holds poop for days at a time. As many as five. Then, because he’s held it so long, it hurts like a sonofabitch to get out. So once or twice a week, he trots himself off to a corner and hides. Or climbs to the top of the restaurant playland and goes invisible for about five minutes. And plays my least favorite game of all, hide-n-go-shit. Used to, he’d make me find him by the smell, then announce, “I’m not wanting to talk to you right now,” (wight now) as if he had an option on that. These days, he just comes and finds me and says “I need some cleaning up” (cweaning up). So I guess I’m thriving on my peaceful parenting in that regard. He mostly doesn’t know how badly I just want to scream and scream when he’s shit his pants again and he’s started to find me for help when he’s a mess. And he’s started putting it in the potty sometimes, but this requires an active, enthusiastic audience, in the form of me. Daddy won’t Do most of the time.
I should pause here to say my husband is an awesome Daddy. Our daughter is a Daddy’s girl no question. She never had an Oedipal phase. Possibly a side effect of her Asperger’s Syndrome, I don’t know, but it’s a gift horse none of us will be looking in the mouth any time soon. I am cursed with a long memory, so, even though I was a Mommy’s Girl, I remember wanting to marry my Dad and my parents earnestly explaining to me why that Wouldn’t Work At All. I think I was probably three at the time. I know I grew out of it faster than Sam, though. I mean, the kid is almost four, and he’s been like this since before his last birthday.
The kicker, though, was last night. He won’t let Scott wash his hair in the tub, and he wants me to fish him out and wrap him up in a towel and get him dressed. I humor him, because my other option is the “wanker” scenario described above. So, last night, I was carrying him down to his room after his bath. He said, “You don’t want to see my penis.”
“No,” I told him. “Penises are private.”
He beamed at me, his most angelic look, and replied in his singsong voice, “But my peeenis wants to see youuuuu.”
I dumped him on his bed, towel and all, and went outside to find Scott. “Your son has just taken the Oedipus Complex to a new level,” I shouted at him.
I’m pretty sure the whole neighborhood heard.
Jessie Powell is the Jester Queen. She likes to tell you about her dog, her kids, her fiction, and her blog, but not necessarily in that order.