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(Mar.04.10)
I am outnumbered in my house full of testes, so it’s just easier to subscribe to the old maxim: if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. I have thus joined the ranks of those in my house with testicles, or nuts, as my older two sons call them.
“Oh, Justin, I just got mom in the nuts”, says Aidan as we play punch ball in the basement. I do not want to get into the details of my anatomy with my kids; it’s just easier to let it go. So when Aidan sits down on the toilet to go pee and then wipes his penis afterward, I don’t correct him anymore; he insists that’s the way to do it.
Don’t get me wrong, sometimes the kids get it right, at least in the anatomical sense. Like the time we were having a water gun fight with Grandma in Nanaimo when Justin’s screams of joy -- that he just got Grandma in the vagina -- could be heard by all the neighbours for miles around.
I actually find it charming now in my testosterone-induced haze, through which I view life. To have nuts that is. This is especially true after talking to a friend at our Christmas party last year. As casual conversation is want to do over the afternoon buffet of an open house Christmas party, table talk naturally veered to below the belt.
I giggle to my friend that Aidan thinks he has a vagina and wipes himself after he pees, and he often asks me where my nuts are. That’s nothing, she says, her son calls hers a “giant” and asks her why her giant is so hairy. Wow, that’s a little less charming, I think to myself. I’d rather have nuts than a giant.
Karen Fedirchuk is the mother of four boys under the age of 6, and a part-time social worker in Vancouver. She first started writing with The Momoir Project and blogs at karenfeds.wordpress.com.
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